


The Spaces In Between

by betweentheheavesofstorm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 'I thought you were dead' au, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Attempt at Humor, Brienne is the Best, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Drabble, Drabble Sequence, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Incest, Melodrama, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Torture, Tumblr Prompt, Violence, flatmates, tyrion is a shipper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 31,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweentheheavesofstorm/pseuds/betweentheheavesofstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’ll have to say they’ve split up. Brienne met someone else, he cheated on her – there are endless ways their fictional relationship could have ended.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A 'I thought you were dead' au that I enjoyed a little bit too much and evolved into a fully fledged fake dating spy au</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The keys aren’t where he left them. Jaime spends a good minute staring at the bottom of the empty mailbox before remembering he took them out just before they left. There wasn’t any sensitive information in the flat, but it still seemed bad practice to leave the place wide open for burglars. He swings his backpack down off his shoulders and searches the side pockets. Kleenex, half a packet of spearmint gum, a torch, ah, there were the keys, gleaming dully right at the bottom.

Zipping the pocket closed, he straightens up and begins the process of unlocking the door. Back in May, when they’d procured the place, Brienne had insisted on proper security. Ironic, seeing as after buying half a dozen locks they proceeded to leave the keys lying around.

Eventually the door creaks open. He hesitates just a fraction too long before walking inside. He hasn’t been here since the first week of August. A light layer of dust has settled over the furniture, when he drops his bag onto the sofa it rises in a small cloud. He waves it away, and makes for the kitchen.

To his great relief, the whiskey is still at the back of the cupboard. It was a sarcastic birthday present from Tyrion that Jaime hadn’t known what to do with. He doesn’t like whiskey, and Brienne doesn’t drink. _Didn’t_ drink.

He was invited to the funeral, more of a formality than anything else. They spent a lot of time working together; it would be only natural for him to show up and pay his respects.

Jaime pours himself a glassful of whiskey and walks back into the living room. He didn’t go to the funeral because he wouldn’t fit in. That’s what he told Varys, anyway. His boss clicked his tongue and sighed, but didn’t press it. He’s lost a lot of agents over the years, knows the proceedings well enough not to pry.

A puff of air escapes from the sofa as he sits down. Taking a sip, Jaime surveys the flat. They were so preoccupied with the assignment that there wasn’t much tidying done before they left. A couple of empty coffee mugs are on the table that holds the TV, Brienne’s sandals are lying in the middle of the floor. He doesn’t trust himself to look at them too long.

The rest of the flat will be even worse. Until Varys tells him otherwise, he’s going to resume living here, which means he’s going to have to clean out Brienne’s room. Her family will probably want her things, if he can bring himself to gather them together.

The glass is empty before he knows it. He’s pouring a second one when there’s a sound. It takes him embarrassingly long to recognise it as somebody knocking on the front door.

Wonderful. One of the neighbours, probably – coming to inquire how the building’s most elusive couple enjoyed their holiday. Playing neighbours has been a necessary part of their cover. Sighing, Jaime goes to answer it. He’ll have to say they’ve split up. Brienne met someone else, he cheated on her – there are endless ways their fictional relationship could have ended.

The glass is still in his hand when he’s reaching for the door. He looks around for somewhere to put it, but the hall is narrow and empty. Oh well, it’s not that out of place for a recently single man to open the door while nursing a drink.

Carefully composing his features to resemble what he imagines patient melancholy looks like, Jaime opens the door.

He recognises her figure immediately, but it takes five seconds or so for him to process what he’s seeing. She’s wearing a long black coat, and an ugly grey beanie that hides most of her hair, and when she turns her head to meet his gaze her voice falters.

‘They said you were dead.’ Far from sticking in his throat, the words tumble out as if he has no control over them. Maybe he doesn’t. It would be the least bizarre thing that’s happening today.

‘I know,’ she says, matter-of-fact. ‘May I come in?’

‘It’s your flat too.’ He opens the door wider, and steps aside to let her pass. The hall is so narrow that she has to squeeze past him, and he gets a whiff of perfume. It’s so unlike her that he has to stop himself frowning.

Brienne hangs her coat up on the rack, and walks through to the living room. Her eyes alight on the whiskey bottle, and she swings round to look at him, her face accusingly concerned.

‘You hate whiskey.’

‘And you were dead.’ He drains his glass, just to make the point. Now he’s actually drinking it, he’s going to have to say thank you to Tyrion. ‘Care to elaborate on that?’

‘It’s…complicated.’ Brienne sinks into an armchair, and he returns to his spot on the sofa. ‘I got to the computer, that was all fine. It was on the way out, I ran into Clegane.’

‘The elder?’

She nods, and Jaime swears under his breath.

‘So when I was meant to be rejoining you I was being whisked off to his private jet.’ It’s then that he notices the bruises, purple against the pale skin of her neck. The suit she’s wearing covers most of her top half, but suddenly Jaime knows from the way she’s holding herself that she’s hurting elsewhere. He would have realised sooner, if it weren’t for the shock of seeing her at all. ‘I didn’t get away till we’d landed in Italy.’

‘And you didn’t call because he’d find you?’

She nods again. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So Varys never knew you were out when it blew?’

‘No, he knew Clegane had me. I saw him just before I came here.’ Her blue eyes are steady.

‘And he didn’t tell me that because?’ Jaime’s right hand is gripping the glass so tightly his knuckles are white.

‘He thought you’d want to go after me. And that it would be no use.’ Brienne’s gaze flickers. ‘Would you have?’

He hated her for the first three months they worked together. ‘Of course.’

She doesn’t quite smile, but one side of her mouth lifts a little.

‘You must be exhausted.’ Jaime gets up quickly. ‘I’ve only just got here, so I haven’t looked at our rooms yet. I don’t know what state they’re in.’

‘As long as the mattresses are still there I don’t care.’ Brienne gets up too, and stretches. ‘Do we have any food?’

He forgot to get groceries on the way, but there’s some instant soup on the shelf. She insists upon preparing it herself; so he just leans against the kitchen doorframe and watches. The flat feels complete with her in it. Come the morning, he’s going to have a few choice things to say to Varys.

The kettle takes forever to boil. Brienne stares at it, and Jaime stares at her. She looks exactly as he expects to see her; tall and strong and focused on her task, regardless of its mundaneness. It hits him again that she’s really here, and before he knows what he’s doing Jaime has started across the room, one hand outstretched. He has to touch her, make sure she’s real. It may be something he’ll regret later, but the memory of the last week is still fresh in his mind. She looks up, just as his hand lands on her bicep, and suddenly he’s very conscious that their faces are only a foot apart.

The moment stretches on, and just when he’s steeling himself to _do something_ it passes. The kettle clicks and she looks away, and he has to step back to stop it getting weird. (It was weird anyway.)

It’s safe and easy after that. She sits and eats her soup, and he fills her in on his half of the mission. Once he’s done she takes over, filling in the detail of her capture, escape and return. It hadn’t quite sunk in before that she’d been caught by Gregor Clegane. A wave of belated terror washes over him, followed by fervent relief. He asks after her injuries and she dismisses them, arguing that Varys saw fit to let her go after a brief checkup. Given his current faith in Varys, the assurance doesn’t do a great deal of good.

‘Have you been in contact with your family?’ he asks, because it has to be said sooner or later.

‘No,’ she admits. ‘It isn’t like I can call them. I thought about going to my father instead of here, but… it’s awful, really. I didn’t have the energy.’

Jaime can’t empathise, and yet he knows what she means. His own family would hardly be distraught if he showed up unexpectedly, bruised and exhausted, but his family cannot be relied upon to react sanely to any situation. His exposure to the Starks, however, allows him to appreciate Brienne’s viewpoint. No doubt her father would be overjoyed to see her, but she would have to constantly reassure him that she was all right, and just now she’s not in shape to be taking care of anybody.

‘Go to bed,’ he suggests, lifting the empty soup bowl from the table and putting it in the sink. Washing up is one of the many chores they can postpone till tomorrow.

‘I think I will. Are my clothes still there? I don’t have anything but this.’

‘I haven’t touched anything,’ he promises. He’s done in the kitchen as well, so he turns off the light and accompanies her into the living room.

Just outside her door, Brienne pauses, and looks back at him. ‘I missed you.’

‘Me too.’ The intimate words sound strange on his tongue, and yet they come quite naturally. ‘I’m glad you’re back.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 18 Weeks Earlier. 
> 
> Brienne’s finding it troubling, and the relationship isn’t even real.

He calls at seven-thirty, with news of a possible flat. Brienne hastily excuses herself from the dinner table, and walks through to the hall to answer. It’s one of her favourite places in the house; when she was younger she used to sit in front of the full-length mirror and play games with her reflection. Most of the hall has been redecorated since then, the paisley wallpaper replaced by dark wood panelling and instead of the plastic wall hooks they have an actual hatstand. The mirror is still there, though. She looks into it as she listens.

‘…pay three months upfront, but that’s only to be expected. Varys promised to help with expenses anyway.’ Jaime pauses. ‘You still there?’

‘What? Yes.’ She should really say that he’s interrupting, can she call back later, but suspects it won’t do any good. Jaime rarely adheres to any schedule that isn’t his own.

‘He said we could see it on Tuesday?’

Brienne bites her lip. ‘No good. I’m busy Tuesday.’

She doesn’t have to be able to see him to picture the look of exasperation crossing his handsome features.

‘Can you reschedule?’

‘No.’ It’s only a slight lie. Catelyn probably wouldn’t say anything if she cancelled, but Brienne doesn’t want to be the one to let her down.

‘I can always go by myself.’

‘No, I want to see it. I have to live there too.’

‘When, then? I told him Tuesday was fine.’

‘You should have checked with me first.’ She sighs, and steals a glance at her reflection. It stares back at her, sterner than is comfortable. Jaime has the extraordinary talent of bringing out the worst in her.  ‘What time?’

‘Morning? He said ten-thirty.’

That’s still workable, then. She’s not due to meet Catelyn till three. If she bites the bullet and gets fast trains there and back, she can still do it, whatever the added expense.

‘All right, I can make it.’

He names a meeting place, and hangs up without saying goodbye. Throughout their working relationship, Jaime has carefully avoided speaking to her unless it’s been strictly necessary. It’s hardly a secret that he resents being partnered with her, while Cersei and Taena skip off having adventures. Well, ‘adventures’ might be a bit much, but there’s no denying that his sister is enjoying her career much more than he is.

She lingers in front of the mirror for a moment more. She’s almost too tall for it; nothing above her hairline is visible. That’s probably a good thing. Nowadays she barely makes an effort, it’s easiest to maintain as it is and long hair would make her stand out. More.

‘Everything all right?’ Her father calls, and she hastily rejoins him in the dining room.

‘Fine,’ she assures him. ‘Just work stuff.’

‘They want far too much from you,’ he says, and it’s the start of a familiar argument. Selwyn doesn’t know the truth of her profession, and in a way she’s glad. He already worries about her, and if he knew she was literally putting her life on the line… Even if it were up to her, she doesn’t know if she could tell him or not. In a way, it’s a relief that the decision is made for her. Varys made it quite clear when she was hired that pretence would feature in all her personal relationships. Not really a problem, because her father and Catelyn are the only people she is really friends with. Selwyn would never suspect in a million years that his ungainly daughter is a secret agent, and Catelyn is a wise enough person not to pry too deeply.

‘They don’t make me do more than any of my colleagues,’ she says lightly, in response to her father’s comment. ‘And it’s good. I like having something to do.’

That at least, he can’t argue with. Being unemployed is the worst Brienne’s life has been so far. And the process of applying for jobs was so unbearable. Her qualifications never seem relevant, and she’s never interviewed well.

If only Jaime will get off her back about the move. At their last meeting, Varys let them know that they were both being transferred to London. He himself spends his time moving around Britain, and has come to the conclusion that it would be easiest for everyone if his favourite agents were always within reach. Not that he said that, of course – one of Varys’s many talents is making it seem like he had nothing to do with a decision, and is merely the messenger. Brienne recognised it for bullshit long ago, but it’s not like she can call him on it.

‘Have you found a place yet?’ Selwyn asks, reading her mind. Brienne shakes herself back to the present, and automatically shakes her head. Then, remembering the phone call, nods.

Her father smiles. ‘Is that a yes or a no?’

‘A yes. I think. My estate agent let me know about a flat that might be suitable. I’m going to see it next week.’

‘I wish I could come with you.’

‘It’s OK, really.’

‘I still can’t believe you’re going. Are you looking forward to it?’

‘Yes and no. It’s going to be a big change.’ Technically, they’re not just moving to London, they’re going into cover. Out in the country, where the only regular observes are cows, Brienne’s been able to keep living at home with relatively few fabrications to keep her identity safe. In the city, it’s going to be completely different. With eyes on every street corner, she’s going to have to visibly be normal. Varys’s latest bombshell contained the news that not only did they have to live together, they were going to pretend to be a couple.

 _It’s what people expect to see,_ he’d written in that email. _It shouldn’t take too much of your energy._

‘I hope you’ll remember to call me,’ Selwyn says. ‘And maybe I can come and visit you.’

Brienne shudders inwardly, picturing the nightmare that would be introducing him to Jaime. Varys suggested using the fake relationship as a reason for the move, but she couldn’t do that to her father. Given the definitive lack of romantic partners in her life so far, he would find it at the very least troubling that she was deciding to move in with Jaime.

Brienne’s finding it troubling, and the relationship isn’t even real.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she says. They’ve both finished, so she stacks the plates and begins clearing the table. ‘Whatever London’s got, I can handle it.’

 

 

 

 

‘Absolutely not.’

‘You aren’t being reasonable.’

‘Oh, I’m not being reasonable?’ Brienne gestures to the gaping holes in the skirting-board. ‘There are rats here.’

‘Mice, perhaps. Quite cute animals, really.’

‘I refuse.’ At least they can argue like a couple. The landlord is watching them sadly. It’s reassuring to see that he doesn’t think Jaime can win this argument.

‘It’s the only place that’s on the Central Line and within our budget. Do _you_ want to search?’

‘I want to live somewhere where I don’t have to worry about animals eating my cereal.’

He leans in, and his breath tickles her face. ‘What they’ll give us in terms of expenses won’t cover rent any more expensive than this. Unless you want to live in a cardboard box, _consider it_.’

‘I think we should take this conversation elsewhere.’ One of them has to be an adult, and it’s usually her. Brienne turns to the landlord and thanks him for his time. Taking hold of Jaime’s arm, she steers him from the flat. He resists a little, but she’s stronger than he is and he doesn’t want to make too much of a scene.

As soon as they’re ensconced in the nearest Costa, the argument continues.

‘Let’s just keep looking,’ Brienne says. ‘Somewhere has to turn up.’

‘It would be far easier if they helped,’ Jaime glowers. He doesn’t have to specify who he means by ‘they’, it’s well enough implied by his intonation. ‘But oh no, this has to be authentic.’

‘If nothing else, it gives us basic knowledge of cheap housing in London,’ Brienne offers. ‘That’s the sort of context that could be helpful.’

‘God woman, you’re so earnest it hurts.’ Jaime picks up a teaspoon and stirs sugar into his coffee.   ‘Do you ever get tired of being right?’

 _More than you know._ ‘Are you never unsatisfied with not caring?’

‘I have a suggestion. If you can’t find an alternative in two weeks, we take this flat.’

It’s the best concession she’s likely to get, with him in this mood. ‘All right. But we both have to look. And if we do take it, you’re responsible for whatever damage the rats cause.’

Jaime raises both perfect eyebrows. ‘Naturally.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It appears I have a habit of writing one-shots and then extending them. Sorry. Anyway, I have a couple more chapters planned for this, but I'm trying to keep it as flexible as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Maybe that isn’t true. She might have looked after him anyway. Morals are quite horrible things to have.)
> 
>  
> 
> 12 Weeks Earlier.

The first time Brienne has to refer to Jaime as her boyfriend, she stumbles over the words. The woman selling curtains thinks it’s adorable, and asks how long they’ve been together.

‘Four months,’ Brienne improvises. ‘But we kept it secret for a while. I’m still not used to talking about it.’

The woman nods understandingly, and starts to talk about the pros and cons of patterned curtains.

After that, Brienne ditches the term ‘boyfriend’ and tries ‘partner’ instead. It’s closer to the truth – they are work partners, after all – and seems less childish.

Jaime is both better and worse at it than she is. On the one hand, when he feels like it his charm can be disarming, and on the other, he can’t stand Brienne. It’s less of a simple dislike and more that he appears to resent her very existence. It’s exhausting, especially when at times it seems to be over, only to suddenly reappear.

Perhaps it is that they’re learning to live together. Shared space leads to all sorts of unwanted discoveries. Such as: Jaime sings in the shower, he only likes toast with butter and nothing else, and he would make an infuriatingly good boyfriend.

The last point is merely a casual observation, combined with an equally casual discovery Brienne made on a night when he came home drunk. It’s only happened the once, and for that she’s thankful, because it was a mildly traumatic experience.

She was sitting at the table with her laptop in front of her, midway through writing an email to Selwyn when the door banged open and an intoxicated Jaime stumbled through it. It quickly became clear that any further work was going to be impossible, and so she put her computer away and resigned herself to looking after him. Had it not been her flat too, she might have left him to cause as much damage as she wanted, but half of the security deposit was hers and she had no intention of letting him destroy the one nice flat they’d found.

(Maybe that isn’t true. She might have looked after him anyway. Morals are quite horrible things to have.)

In fairness, it wasn’t that bad. After rambling incoherently about Cersei for a little while, Jaime became very solemn and told her that he’d only ever been with one woman.

‘And I loved her,’ he said. ‘ _God_ , I loved her. But she’s bad, you know? And she makes it bad.’

‘Right.’

‘I wanted to give her the world. I’d have done anything for her. That’s how it should be, you know? When you love someone. They’re worth everything.’

‘Mm,’ Brienne said, pressing a glass of water into his hand. ‘Drink, you don’t want to get dehydrated.’

He looked at it disdainfully, and then chugged it all in one go. ‘Glad I’m out of it. It’s better. Makes me wonder what I missed, though. I had plenty of offers.’ He laughed. ‘Mary, you know, with the black hair, she liked me. I said no. I’m a good guy, I don’t do shit like that. I do the right thing. Like you.’

‘I find that difficult to believe.’

‘No, but I am. Or maybe I could be. Do you think I could be?’

‘In an alternate universe, perhaps.’ One where Jaime is as kind as he is good-looking, where he cares about anything other than himself.

‘You’re good,’ Jaime says, and she might believe he thought that if his speech weren’t so slurred. ‘You’re… honourable.’

‘And you’re drunk.’ Brienne gets up, and his hand flies out. It was aiming for her forearm, but lands instead on her hip. His touch is surprisingly tender. She glares down at him, her blue eyes icy, and is struck by the liquid warmth in his gaze.

It’s as if she’s seeing Jaime, the real Jaime, for the first time. It’s only now that she realizes how much energy he puts into closing himself off and shutting himself away from the world. And he has to; she understands that. Nobody with a soft heart lasts long in the Lannister family. Does it come to his sister more naturally, pretending to be heartless? Maybe Cersei isn’t acting. Brienne would hardly be surprised.

‘Stay,’ Jaime murmurs, softening the T so that the word rolls off his tongue.

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ She can’t, however much she’d like to. ‘I have to stay and look after your drunk self.’

‘Not drunk,’ he mumbles. ‘Just tired.’

Brienne sits again, on a different chair a little further away. Is it likely that he’ll throw up? Perhaps she should get a bucket. This is hardly her area of expertise. Ill animals she’s great with. Dogs, horses – even a cow, once – she can handle without getting flustered. The right things just occur to her, and she’s able to keep them calm.

A laugh bubbles up out of her chest as she imagines telling someone she wishes Jaime were a dog, so she could tend him properly. She’d love to tell Catelyn, only that’s impossible. The only people who know that she knows Jaime are Cersei and Varys, and neither of them would appreciate the comment very much.

‘Why are you laughing?’

‘Something occurred to me.’ It would be fine to share the story if she altered the facts a little, but something about it doesn’t feel right. Jaime has never been this… well, _vulnerable_ , and even if it’s mildly horrifying it isn’t very fair to mock him for it.

Even he wouldn’t – doesn’t – hesitate before mocking her.

Brienne sighs, and opens a game on her phone. It’s going to be a long evening. ‘You’re right. I am a good person.’

 

 

When he wakes, his headache is so bad that for a good five minutes Jaime assumes the world has ended. All that’s left must be a heap of rubble, that’s conveniently stacked itself on top of his skull.

Gradually he becomes aware that that isn’t the case. He’s lying in his bed, for once thing, a rickety wooden thing that could hardly survive an apocalypse. He’s wearing a pair of jeans with no shirt, but the gilded dog tag is still hanging from the chain around his neck. From the amount of light he’d also guess he’s in the flat, which means the world didn’t even succeed in ending Brienne.

 _Brienne_. Jaime rises too quickly and almost falls. He has to steady himself by grabbing the bedside table, and in the process knocks off his alarm clock. His head is pounding something terrible, but worse is a sudden suspicion that something horrific has happened. The memory of the previous night is blurry, but it’s beginning to come back piece-by-piece.

He can remember being at the post office. It was the six-month anniversary of the fictitious relationship, and it seemed like a good idea to pick up a card. Flowers had briefly occurred to him; but that surely was overkill.

There didn’t seem to be any cards for the six-month mark. There were some that just said ‘happy anniversary’ so he stood in front of those, trying to figure if patterned or minimalist would be better. For some reason it was easy to distance the process from Brienne; he wasn’t buying a card for _her,_ he was buying a card for an anniversary. For someone he cared about.

And right on cue, Cersei called.

He knew at once from the tone of her voice that it wasn’t going to be a fun conversation. That, and the fact that his sister never bothered him with trivialities. He might get an irate text or an angry Facebook message, but Cersei reserved phone calls for when shit had well and truly hit the fan, when if she wasn’t able to talk to him she’d probably commit murder.

Jaime’s sister was his favourite person in the world, but god did he hate her sometimes.

‘Hello?’

‘Tell me, brother, do I appear like an idiot?’

‘Not especially.’ He suppressed a sarcastic response. She sounded deceptively calm, which means he was going to have to tread carefully if he didn’t want the conversation to blow up in his face.

‘It’s Father,’ she began, and then the rant spilled out of her, taking her over until she was nothing but an angry voice in his ear. Jaime listened for a bit, and then tuned out. As usual half of Cersei’s problems are self-inflicted, and the other half are only what she can expect from a father like Tywin. Not that he doesn’t sympathise – Tywin’s screwed him over plenty of times, there is certainly no love lost between the man and his children – but he doesn’t have the energy right now to be angry.

‘You need to come,’ Cersei finished. ‘I’ve booked you a train ticket, you can pick it up from Euston.’

‘Now?’ Jaime’s attention returned to the conversation. ‘Come home? I can’t.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. This is an emergency.’

‘I’m working, Cersei. I can’t just drop everything because a couple of your plans fell through.’

‘What, and you love your work so much you can’t take a day off?’ She didn’t bother to conceal the derision in her voice. ‘Do you _like_ that cow?’

‘That’s irrelevant. You know I’d love to see you, I just – ’

‘No, I get it,’ she interrupted. ‘You’re _working._ I’d hate to interfere with your super important plans.’

‘If you’d given me warning, I might have been able.’

‘What am I supposed to do with the train ticket, now?’

She sounded petulant, childish. Jaime was sick and tired of this exchange. ‘I don’t know; give it to one of your many friends. Isn’t Taena supposed to be with you? Maybe she can help.’

‘She’s not you,’ Cersei muttered. ‘If you don’t love me, you can just say, you know.’

He hung up, then, worried about what he might say if he didn’t. Cersei had rattled him in a way he hadn’t anticipated, though he should know by now that whenever he thinks things are going smoothly, his sister has an extraordinary talent for fucking up.

He doesn’t remember leaving the post office, but is certain that from there he went to a bar. However much he berates Tyrion for drinking, it’s something he invariably falls back upon. Oh well, it’s hardly a surprise that Lannisters are hypocrites.

Of the bar itself he has little memory. It’s not hard to piece the rest together. At some point he must have staggered home, crashed into the flat and then what? Jaime rises again, slower this time, and heads for the door. He feels like absolute shit, but is now more than a little worried about what he might have done or said.

Brienne is eating breakfast when he walks into the kitchen. She looks up, and her blue eyes widen very slightly. Jaime remembers he forgot to put a shirt on, and then realises it’s not the reason she’s staring. She’s seen him shirtless before; right now she’s in the process of remembering whatever stupid things he did last night.

‘Morning,’ he mutters, and slumps into a chair. It’s too bright and loud in the kitchen; Brienne is eating cereal, and every now and again her spoon clatters against the bowl.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asks. Quietly, not judgementally. At least, he hopes so.

‘Like hell,’ he says. ‘Did I… I mean, what did I do?’

‘You can’t remember.’ She doesn’t phrase it as a question. He can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.

‘No.’

‘Well, you didn’t dance naked on the table, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘Always a good thing to know. Did I mention my sister?’

‘Her name came up. You complained about her, and then moved on to talking about some past relationship.’ Seeing that he was waiting for more, Brienne continued, ‘It was mostly sad rambling. You even called me a good person.’ Her cereal finished, she picks up the bowl and takes it over to the sink. ‘You were really out of it.’

That doesn’t sound too terrible. ‘I should probably call Cersei.’

‘Maybe wait a little while. Hungover apologies aren’t a huge improvement on drunk apologies.’

‘Yeah, OK.’ _Thanks for taking care of me_. The words hang in the air, but Jaime is too sober to say them. He nods awkwardly instead, and goes in search of a clean shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may as well apologise in advance for the mess this is going to be, because 1) I have no update schedule whatever, it's literally just when I have the time to write & post it, and 2) I haven't the slightest idea how many chapters this is going to be. Most of these are still prequels, but I'm not sure if I'm going to leave it as it is at the end of the first chapter or add onto that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘That’s different,’ she says calmly. ‘You’re you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Present Day

It occurs to Jaime when he steps out of the shower that normality is quite terrifyingly fragile.

It’s not the shower so much that makes him realise that, but the fact that he forgot to close the bathroom door _again_ and that he’s going to have to find a towel very quickly to stop things from getting awkward. It’s all right as long as he can hear the radio, because it means Brienne is in the kitchen. She’s the sort of person who insists on turning off devices before leaving a room, which is normally annoying but right now is a lifesaver.

 His towel is hanging off the back of the door. Dripping, he hops across the bathroom to grab it, trying not to get too much water everywhere. Seconds later the door is closed, and he’s safe. There are still wet footprints leading from the shower across the bathroom, but he can dry those with the bath mat Brienne was given for Christmas.

Five minutes later he’s washed and dressed, and trying to find something edible in the cupboards for breakfast. Brienne is scrolling through emails, a cup of tea and a box of cereal bars next to her. Jaime picks the cardboard box up and shakes it, but it’s empty.

This is what he means by normality. Brienne here, being annoying, being _ordinary._ Irritating and sometimes downright infuriating and yet a necessary ingredient in his life, one he came so close to losing.

 ‘I think there was a very old crumpet at the back of the fridge,’ she says. ‘If you toast it long enough, it might be all right.’

‘I’ll pass.’ They don’t have any coffee either, just teabags. He drops one into the last clean mug and puts on the kettle. ‘You all right?’

‘Could be better,’ she admits. She looks more tired than she did last night, or perhaps it’s the brighter morning light of the kitchen that’s revealing how exhausted she is. Her actual injuries are less visible; she’s changed into a pale pink turtleneck that, while rather fashionable, is thoroughly unsuitable for the warm September day.

‘I haven’t called my dad yet.’

The open vulnerability of the statement takes him by surprise. To admit uncertainty is so unlike her, especially when he has given her so much grief for it. Then again, neither of them are quite who they were.

‘Is that how you’re going to do it?’ The kettle is boiling, so he turns it off and pours his tea.  ‘Over the phone?’

‘I think so. He’ll want to see me, of course. But turning up in person might be too much of a shock for his system.’

‘Not evidently for _my_ system.’

‘That’s different,’ she says calmly. ‘You’re you.’

Whatever that means.

Jaime clears his throat. ‘I’m going to go shopping, once I’ve finished this.’ He indicates his mug. ‘I mean, if you want to talk without being disturbed.’

She nods. ‘Thank you.’

He busies himself making a list of essentials. Milk, bread, eggs, butter. Coffee, sugar, some vegetables would be good. Anything that will make a square meal. He should probably take dinner into account, too. It might be easiest if they get takeaways tonight, but pasta would be good for future meals.

‘See you in a bit,’ he says, gulping down the last of his tea and hooking his jacket off the back of his chair. Brienne glances up, but doesn’t say anything.

Sainsburys is a five minute walk away. After loading up on the essentials, he picks a bag of giant cookies off the shelf on a whim. Sugar never did anyone any harm.

A text arrives with a ping when he’s going through the self-service. Jaime finishes loading the bags, and then fishes the phone out of his pocket. Under the sender id is a single letter: _V._ Holding the bags with one hand, he opens the message. _“B not responding. Come in for afternoon tea.”_ Brienne must still be on the phone.

On the way home, he passes Mrs Thorne, the sixty-year-old who lives on the ground floor with her adult son. Jaime’s ninety-percent sure that she has a secret business growing cannabis in her back room. She smiles as he passes, and makes a passing comment about the weather.

He re-enters the flat quietly, unsure whether Brienne is still on the phone. The kitchen is empty, so he sets to work unloading the bags.

When the cupboards are full and the orange plastic bags are piled on the table he turns to the doorway. Her tall frame fills it. She’s so quiet for somebody so tall, it still startles him. He doesn’t know how long she’s been standing there.

‘I got cookies,’ he says, and nods jerkily to the paper bag.

‘Biscuits. This isn’t America.’

‘These _are_ cookies,’ he takes one and holds it up. ‘Biscuit is a blanket term that covers all varieties. These are an American type, so we call them cookies.’

She sighs. ‘Just give me one.’

He acquiesces, and they eat in silence. Then – ‘Varys wants you.’

‘So I gathered. I had a missed call from him.’ A momentary glower. ‘He could have texted _me.’_

‘He probably assumes we’re joined at the hip. Look at us, both tall and blond and athletic.’

‘We aren’t a real couple.’

‘We’d make a good one, though.’

She snorts. ‘That’s beside the point. I’m capable of making my own appointments.’

‘How did the call go?’

She waits until she’s finished chewing to answer. ‘All right. Or as all right as it was ever going to be.’

Jaime tries and fails to imagine having that conversation with Tywin. _Hi Father, I’m not dead_. Tywin’s conflicting response; grateful that his golden son has returned and reluctant to admit heartfelt emotions. Twyin always says he cares and is always careful not to show it. He’s under the impression that emotion diminishes his power.

And doesn’t it? Cersei and Jaime allow emotion to rule them, and look how wonderful they’ve turned out. And Tyrion… well, Tyrion is something else.

‘He wants me to come home,’ Brienne adds. ‘Only Varys… I don’t know if I can.’

‘He could come here.’ Jaime says it without thinking.

She purses her lips. ‘That would be difficult.’

‘We could set up a camp bed. There’s space.’

‘He doesn’t know you exist.’ She says it in a rush.

‘Ah. I won’t lie, that complicates things.’ It’s really quite impressive. They’ve been living together since the start of summer. He’s not sure he would have been able to hide it from Cersei. ‘May I ask why?’

‘I didn’t want to lie to him,’ she sighs. ‘And I don’t really date much, so I’m not sure he would have believed me if I had.’

She doesn’t have to add that Jaime is not the sort of person she’d date anyway.

‘We could tell him we were friends.’ He’s onto his second cookie now. ‘We do sleep in separate rooms.’

‘He’s quite old fashioned. I don’t think he’d approve. And it’s hardly like you’re some frightened wisp of a man.’

‘And so the day has arrived when we cannot convince somebody we _aren’t_ in love.’ Jaime’s eyebrows quirk up. ‘Hell must have frozen over.’

‘I suppose I’ll ask Varys for the time off. When does he want me? Us?’

‘He said to come in for afternoon tea. That could mean both of us.’ His eyes dart down from her face to her outfit. ‘You should wear something more low-cut.’

Brienne glances down at her chest and flushes. ‘I really hope you aren’t suggesting I try to seduce Varys, because that’s what it sounds like.’

The image is quite horrifying.

‘God, no. I meant to show off your injuries. Play the martyr card, that sort of thing.’

 

 

The shirt she picks to replace it is dark red, with a scoop neckline. A good choice, the colour compliments the purple hues in the bruises around her neck and collarbone. A thin gash runs along the ridge of her shoulder. Jaime feels a ridiculous urge to touch it, clean it. He orders himself not to be ridiculous.

‘I could stay somewhere else,’ he offers, as they leave the flat. ‘If your dad came, I mean.’

‘And I’d tell him what about the empty bedroom?’

‘Oh, yeah. Never mind.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is getting confused about the chronology of these chapters please say so. I'm also really sorry about the mess that is my planning and update schedule. However I do have a rough outline, and can say that there should be at *least* four more chapters, and maybe as many as six or seven.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'People die every day. More than a few of them in the secret service. If that is too much for you to handle, I suggest you find another career.'

It’s more than a little crowded on the tube. Neither of them manages to find seats, so they stand awkwardly in the middle of the aisle, holding onto the overhead bars. Brienne’s bruises get more than a few stares from the other passengers. She ignores them, her jaw set resolutely and her eyes staring unseeingly over Jaime’s shoulder. As always, he feels short standing next to her. He finds something else to look at, and hopes fervently that nobody thinks the bruises are his handiwork.

The walk from the tube station to the office isn’t too long. They arrive early, and take the lift up to the relevant floor. The interior of Varys’ office is silver and white, and as always it’s unnaturally tidy. Brienne’s relatively organised, but compared to their boss she’s the biggest of slobs.

‘Good afternoon.’ Varys greets them from behind his desk. His suit looks to be as expensive as the ones Tywin wears, and his expression is carefully blank. ‘I trust you had a good journey?’

‘It was fine,’ Brienne says stiffly. This is the second meeting she’s had with him in two days; it’s bound to wear on her nerves. ‘You said you needed to see us.’

‘Well, _you_ ,’ He shrugs. The movement looks wrong, coming from him. Too casual. ‘Your pet Lannister is just an added bonus.’

Jaime can’t muster the energy to glare. He’s never been good at managing Varys, that’s Tyrion’s division.  

‘What is this about?’

‘You. Impressive as it was, did you expect to be able to hitchhike home from Italy and get back in the field the next day?’ His eyebrows rise half a centimetre. ‘You’ll have to be formally assessed, of course, before you return to service. Shockingly, we do have safety policies about when agents are allowed to work.’

‘I was cleared by the medical board yesterday.’

‘I don’t just mean physical assessment. Following what must have been a traumatic experience, we have to ensure that you’re still at the top of your game.’ Varys phrases it sympathetically, but there is no sympathy in his eyes.

‘So I’m on probation?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Does that mean I can take time off to visit my father?’ Brienne is surprisingly unruffled. Then again, worse things have happened to her. She probably doesn’t want to start acting like nothing’s happened. Just because Jaime likes to throw himself back into the swing of things when he’s trying to get over something doesn’t mean everybody does.

‘Certainly.’

The door to the office opens, and an intern comes in with a tray loaded with sandwiches. His eyes flicker over Brienne and Jaime, and then at a cough from Varys he hurriedly stumbles across to place the tray on the desk. He looks about nineteen, Jaime thinks, though not the sort that’s usually eager to become a secret agent. Perhaps he’s just interning as a summer job. Or an autumn job. Something like that.

‘Thank you, Pod.’ Aside from the comment, Varys barely acknowledges the boy at all. Jaime nods awkwardly, and Brienne gives a small smile.

Eyes on his boss, Pod backs out of the room and closes the door behind him.

‘He looks terrified of being here,’ Jaime remarks, once he’s confident the boy is out of earshot. ‘Where did you find him?’

‘Defending a pregnant dog in an alley,’ Varys says lightly. ‘But the rest is confidential.’ He gestures to the tray. ‘Please, help yourselves.’

Jaime takes a sandwich and bites into it. White bread and butter, with slices of cucumber and cheddar cheese. It’s the sort of thing he might have taken on a school trip, a hundred or so years ago.

‘Let us know how long you’ll want to spend visiting home,’ Varys tells Brienne. ‘Your assessment will begin on your return.’ He starts talking about formalities then, briefly outlining the mental and physical stages of the evaluation. It all sounds vaguely horrific, but Brienne doesn’t look too daunted.

‘One last thing.’ His spiel finished, Varys rises, effectively communicating that their interview is at an end. Between them, Jaime and Brienne have eaten nearly all the sandwiches, so at least they got something out of it. ‘Should you ever find yourself in similar circumstances, please refrain from acting as you did. Your determination, while admirable, led to some oversights that could easily have been avoided.’

Brienne goes very rigid. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your attempt to contact our overseas office in Rome. It was clumsy, to say the least. You very nearly exposed us, and that being our most vulnerable base, you placed the lives of a large number of people at risk.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She’s still calm, but there is an edge to her voice. ‘What should I have done?’

‘Frankly,’ Varys’s eyes meet hers, and Jaime notices with a lurch of his stomach that their boss looks bored. ‘You should never have got off the plane.’

 

For a moment Brienne looks as if she’s going to square up to him, and then all at once the energy goes out of her. Her shoulders slump, and she nods without saying anything.

It would be smartest to follow suit here. Jaime’s been angry with Varys in the past, and it’s never ended well. Right now though, staying silent is unthinkable. ‘You can’t mean that.’

‘As it happens, I place the value of a hundred lives over the value of one. I hope you would do the same.’

‘You know what Clegane is. What he does. She’s one of the best agents you have, and you’d let him murder her.’

‘People die every day. More than a few of them in the secret service. If that is too much for you to handle, I suggest you find another career. Good day.’

‘Let’s just go,’ Brienne is tugging at his sleeve. He doesn’t want to leave, wants to keep giving Varys a piece of his mind, but one look at his face tells him it’s a bad idea.

He follows her reluctantly to the door, and is halfway out of it when Varys speaks again.

‘For the sake of maintaining your cover, I’m keeping you together. If that were not the case, I would reassign you,’ his eyes bore into Jaime, ‘with a more appropriate partner.’

Jaime clenches his jaw, and suppresses what he’d like to say.

‘Your attachment surprises me,’ Varys adds. ‘Only a few weeks ago you were begging for somebody else.’

‘ _Let’s go_ ,’ Brienne repeats, and drags Jaime from the room. He doesn’t resist this time. Her face is stony, but he can’t tell whether it was Varys’s parting shot or the interview in general that’s had this effect.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, on the walk back to the tube station. ‘I mean, I did ask, but – ’

‘You what? You didn’t mean it?’ She shakes her head. ‘I know how you feel about me, OK? You’ve made it more than clear.’

Jaime thinks back to how he felt when he saw her on the doorstep, how the world had stopped spinning and suddenly righted itself.

 _No,_ he thinks. _You really don’t._

But he can’t say that, so he keeps his mouth shut, walking along in the path she cuts through the crowd.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to take forever to finish and I'm sorry, but the good news is that the plot is going to get more self-indulgent as it goes along. (At least, I hope that's good news. I'm a sucker for certain cliches.)
> 
> If you have any questions, concerns or would just like to say you liked it, leave a comment below or send me an ask at betweentheheavesofstorm.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne’s made a lot of bad decisions in her time, but this is shaping up to be the worst one yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never thought I'd need to put this, given that it's an AU fic, but there are GOT/ASOIAF spoilers in this chapter/future plot developments.
> 
> Most of the spoilers are from A Clash Of Kings/A Storm of Swords/A Feast For Crows, but one (fairly major) one is from the first book/series. 
> 
> I assume most of you are caught up sufficiently if you're reading about these two, but it still doesn't hurt to have this.
> 
> For what the spoilers are, see the end note.

The first few nights after getting home, Brienne can’t sleep without the noise of traffic in the background. She used to find the silence of the countryside comforting, but now it just sounds empty. Her father’s not home a lot of the time, and she has to relearn how to live by herself. It’s strange, being able to make as much noise as she likes without bothering anyone. She can even sing if she wants to, which isn’t often. The freedom is both pleasant and jarring.

Jaime had offered to walk her to the station, an offer she’d stiffly declined. He wasn’t a person she wanted to be around. In fact, she wasn’t sure he ever had been. The only reason the two of them got along  at all was because it was convenient to. Not the ideal basis for a friendship. And OK, maybe at times it had seemed like they could do more than tolerate each other. Upon returning to London, she’d gone to him instead of her family or friends. Though that wasn’t strange, really – it was just as much her flat as his – what was strange was that she didn’t regret it.

But that didn’t mean as much as she thought it did, and it was time to accept reality. The first week at home was exhausting enough without added distractions. Selwyn alternated between tiptoeing round her and scooping her into hugs. Thankfully that period has now passed, though now she’s not quite sure what sure what to do with herself.

Her father won’t let her leave yet, and she’s not sure she wants to. The bruises and scrapes she came home with are healing, so that she no longer flinches when she sees herself in the mirror. She’s becoming stronger, and yet feels more fragile than before. It’s so much easier to hide out in the country than return to face London, and whatever tests she’ll need to pass to get back in the field.

Jaime has contacted her exactly once since she left. A text, sent on the second day: _“mrs thorne was arrested last night. think it was drugs related? if im right u owe me £15”_.

Her first impulse was to respond. _“OK, but you’re not allowed to adopt her cat.”_ She’d typed it out, and then hesitated. Reading over the message again, she felt something twist in her stomach. This wasn’t right, it wasn’t them. Swapping jokes and making small talk, that was for other people. Normal people.

Brienne deleted the response without sending it, and he hadn’t texted her again.

If there’s one good thing that has come out of her near-death experience, it’s that she no longer has to lie to her father. Since she magically materialised back from the dead, she’s had to come clean about everything. Well, almost everything. That she’s living with a man who resents her very existence has stayed secret.

Selwyn took the news well, considering. He was far from impressed that she’d nearly died on what should have been a routine mission, but had accepted he couldn’t make her resign. She’d hoped just a little that he’d be proud, but perhaps that was wishful thinking.  Instead he seems to have taken the Official Secrets Act to heart, and is now trying to avoid any mention of her work at all, even in the most innocuous context.

 

Catelyn’s already at the café when Brienne arrives. The older woman is sitting with a book, stirring milk into her tea. She looks more weathered than she did a few months ago, the lines around her eyes are deeper and there are more grey streaks than ever in her auburn hair.

‘Afternoon,’ she smiles as Brienne sits down. ‘You look exhausted. I told you if you moved to London you wouldn’t get a moment’s rest.’

Brienne shifts in her seat. Catelyn knows, now. She was at the funeral. (Jaime wasn’t. He had better things to do.) And she’s signed the Secrets Act as well, so it’s not like she can blab about it in public.

‘I’ve been better since I came home,’ Brienne says, which is only partly true. ‘How have you been?’

‘Well, thank you. And your father?’

‘He’s,’ Brienne shrugs. ‘Still in a state of shock, I think. I don’t imagine he thought I was capable of something like this.’

‘If he didn’t then I’m sure he does now,’ Catelyn says, but the comment sounds more kind than sincere.

A waiter materialises, and Brienne orders tea. She’s been drinking it endlessly since she got home, and it’ll be nice to have it made for her for once. Anxious to move onto a different topic, she asks, ‘What’s going on with Robb? Is he in his third or second year now?’

Catelyn launches into an account of her eldest son’s university life. Robb’s studying Politics, and from the sound of it he’s having a challenging time.

‘He still manages to spend every other weekend with Jon,’ his mother says, with a little sigh. ‘Half the country between them and they’re still thick as thieves.’

‘What’s Jon up to? Isn’t he at uni?’

‘No, Ned always wanted him to go, but he got an apprenticeship instead.’ Catelyn’s mouth, as always, goes a little thin when speaking of her adoptive son. Brienne’s never met Jon – the half-sibling of the Stark children – yet she can’t help pitying him. He’s Catelyn’s one blind spot, and even though she refrains from acting on her feelings he must be aware of them.

The conversation soon moves on from there to a description of Arya’s latest exploits. These stories are more cheering; as Brienne listens, a small smile creeps onto her face. It’s always nice to hear about other people’s lives and all the mundane details that feel so important at the time.

Her tea arrives, and even though it’s got a little too much milk she doesn’t mind too much. It seems pointless to get angry on a sunny afternoon, when things finally seem to be OK for five minutes. Catelyn has the remarkable gift of being able to make everything feel normal, and Brienne loves her for it. Selwyn has done his best, but he’s so shaken himself he’s not in the right place to comfort her.

‘How long until you go back?’ Catelyn asks. Sometime during the conversation she ordered cake for both of them and they’re eating that now, digging tiny silver forks into chocolate sponge.

‘I don’t know,’ Brienne admits. ‘I want to, but at the same time I really don’t. I wasn’t given a specific window of time for my holiday.’

‘I wouldn’t call it a holiday so much as recuperation. It’s fair to let yourself rest.’

‘Mm.’ The cake is really quite good. ‘Do you spend much time in London?’

‘Now and then, visiting the office. I’m not a huge fan of the place. So many things are happening at once, I feel like even flies have ulterior motives.’

Brienne winces, and inwardly chides herself for her clumsiness. Of course, London is hardly going to be Catelyn’s favourite place. Her husband was murdered there in one of the greatest scandals of the previous year. Eddard Stark was close to becoming CEO of Britain’s most influential business, and somebody decided to remove him from the running.

‘I didn’t think I liked it,’ she says, hoping that she’s not sounding insensitively self-absorbed. ‘It was something I had to put up with. But now I’m here, I’m not so sure. There are advantages to living in a city.’

‘Not the coffee, though.’ Catelyn pulls a face, and Brienne laughs.

‘I’m learning to live with chain cafes. The public transport makes up for it. I don’t know how I managed before the tube.’

‘Turning into a city person all over.’

‘Only superficially,’ Brienne promises, and wonders if she means it. Fond as she is of the country, there have been plenty of times growing up when she desperately wanted to live somewhere else. Being uncool in cities doesn’t matter because nobody has time to care, but everybody knows everybody in her little town and once you’ve made a first impression it’s hard to change.

While she was still living at home, to a certain extent it felt like she was only playing at being a secret agent. She didn’t realise quite how true it was until she moved, and suddenly she could be a different person. Still awkward, still with bad dress sense, but capable. Tough, even. If you’d told her a year ago that she could survive living with Jaime Lannister, she’d have been amazed.

She doesn’t have to dwell on this too long, because all too soon Catelyn is saying goodbye and shaking her hand, and Brienne is standing by the bus stop waiting for one of the hourly buses home.

 

She gets a phone call halfway through making dinner. The pasta has just gone on, the sauce is happily bubbling away and on the other end of the line Catelyn Stark is hysterical.

‘They’re gone,’ she keeps repeating, as if she’s a record stuck on _Replay_. Her voice rises uncontrollably. ‘They’re just _gone_. Bran says he saw Sansa walking with some strange men, but we haven’t seen Arya. Maybe she went after her? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Breathe,’ Brienne says, and tries not to panic, because if she’s telling _Catelyn_ to be calm then nothing is going to make sense. ‘What’s happened? Who’s gone?’

There is a pause, and then, ‘Sansa and Arya are missing,’ Catelyn manages. ‘I think they’ve been kidnapped.’

Brienne says nothing. Her world has begun to spin. Sansa is sixteen, the queen of her own little world. She wears crop tops and strappy sandals and gets in trouble for texting boys at the dinner table. She once insisted taking Brienne on a shopping trip that ended in disaster, but they got milkshakes and called it a good day anyway. Arya is thirteen, still with perpetually scraped knees and callused hands from climbing trees. Brienne taught her how to skim stones, and felt an odd kinship with this little girl, bright and fierce and unlike everything little girls are supposed to be.

‘You’re sure?’ she says, now. ‘They aren’t just staying out late?’

‘I’m sure. The police are here now.’ Catelyn gulps. ‘Brienne, I – I’m not just calling you because you’re my friend.’

 _Of course not._ The pieces fall into place at once. Catelyn’s doing the right thing and going by the usual routine, but if there’s a way she can find her daughters faster she’ll take it. Being friends with a secret agent has its benefits. And even though the Starks have half a dozen experts still examining Ned’s assassination, it’s not the same. Brienne knows the girls, cares about them, is ready to endanger herself for them with more determination than money can buy.

‘I don’t know what I can do,’ she says honestly. She’s painfully aware that this line isn’t safe. Varys is definitely tapping her mobile, and Catelyn’s phone can’t be very secure. ‘I’m not working at the moment.’

‘I know, I just. Ned had enemies. I’m sure they’re behind it.’

The pasta is almost done. Brienne gives it a stir with the hand that’s not holding the phone. ‘And you want me to find them?’

‘Please.’ Catelyn’s voice is close to a whisper. ‘I don’t know what else to do.’

She can’t say yes. If the call had come at another time, maybe enough sweet-talking would convince Varys to let her to take up a project, but right now the idea is impossible. She isn’t a working agent right now. There are all manner of tests she has to do before she can get back in the field, and the Stark girls do not have time for that.

An image of Arya and Sansa flashes into her mind, and her resolve falters. Brienne has only just escaped capture, how can she knowingly allow them to endure the same? They’re both tough, it’s true, but they are still children. Not to mention the fact that if she says no now, Catelyn won’t ever speak to her again.

‘All right,’ Brienne says. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I’m not a detective. It might not be much.’ _It might not be enough_.

‘Thank you,’ Catelyn exhales. ‘Thank you so much. Do you want to speak to the police? They’re here now, I could pick you up – ’

‘It’s OK. I’ll need to do a lot of arguing to get permission to do this, and if I do I can access the police databases indirectly.’ Brienne glances at the clock, and then at the pasta on the stove. ‘Let me finish dinner, pack, and I’ll see if I can get back to London tonight.’

‘I’ll book you a train,’ Catelyn offers immediately, which Brienne does appreciate because last-minute tickets are _expensive_. ‘Euston OK?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ Oh God, she’s going to have to give Jaime a reason for returning early. Her first instinct is to lie, but it’ll be a nightmare to maintain the façade. Especially as she’s going to need to beat Varys down. She might as well do her best to get Jaime on her side, or at the very least not opposed to her.

‘This means so much to me,’ says Catelyn. ‘I’ll go book you the ticket, and I can drive you to the station?’

‘That would be great, thanks.’ The pasta is done. Brienne switches off the gas and carries the steaming pot over to the sink, where she tips the contents into a waiting colander.

Catelyn hangs up, and the enormity of what Brienne has just signed up for hits her.

Sansa and Arya Stark are missing, and now it’s her responsibility to find them. Never mind that she’s not a detective, or that she’s currently off-duty following a harrowing kidnap experience of her own. Never mind that she isn’t even technically a secret agent at the moment, and begging permission to go off on what could be a wild goose chase is hardly going to count in her favour.

Brienne’s made a lot of bad decisions in her time, but this is shaping up to be the worst one yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Factual wise, the biggest spoiler mentioned in this chapter is Ned Stark's death. If you've got far through (the tv series or books) enough to know who Brienne is, you'll know about this, but hey. I don't know your life. Seemed best to mention it and be on the safe side.
> 
> 2) The other main spoiler is the theme of Brienne looking for Sansa and Arya. This does not directly parallel the canon circumstances, but it's similar enough to mention.
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed this chapter please leave a comment. If you have any more specific questions/want to chat to me about Jaime and Brienne, send me an ask at betweentheheavesofstorm.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘You don’t think I’m strong enough?’

Jaime is waiting for her on the other side of the ticket barriers, a cardboard cup of coffee in his hand. She recognises his red jacket first, and then his blond hair. He doesn’t see her immediately, in fact doesn’t notice her until she’s ten paces away.

‘Evening,’ he says, raising the coffee. For the briefest of moments Brienne wonders if he’s going to offer it to her, but then he raises it to his own lips to drink.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I might ask you the same question. I was under the impression your holiday was going to be longer.’

‘It was. I texted you.’

‘Yes, you did.’ With the hand that isn’t holding the coffee, he pulls his phone from a jacket pocket. ‘“ _Returning to London tonight. Unexpected but urgent.”_ Not exactly the most detailed explanation.’

‘I didn’t have time.’ Brienne starts walking towards the tube entrance, and he follows.

‘Good thing you’ve got time now. Is it a work thing?’

‘Not quite.’

‘I didn’t think it was.’

She glances at him. ‘You didn’t know when my train was. How long have you been waiting here?’

‘When I get a text from my colleague telling me they’re coming home sooner than expected on urgent business, it tends to arouse my curiosity.’ He’s smiling amiably, but it’s not fully concealing the tension on his face. ‘So, what is it?’

He’s clearly not going to let up until she tells him, so she does, trusting her low voice and the busyness of the station to prevent eavesdropping. He’s a better audience than she expected him to be, not interrupting until he’s sure she’s done.

It isn’t until she’s almost at the end of the explanation that she begins to dread the moment when she stops talking, and he has time to react. She’s so tired that for the moment she’d forgotten that they weren’t friends, but he’s sure to remind her of it as soon as he has a chance to speak.

‘…so she booked me a late train, and here I am.’ Brienne takes a breath, and watches her companion out of the corner of her eyes.

‘You’re mad,’ Jaime says, without hesitation. ‘Do you realise what this means? You’ll never get permission.’

‘Maybe not,’ she allows. ‘But I have to do something.’

‘Can’t she just hire a detective? The woman’s rolling in money, it’s not like you’re doing it out of charity.’

‘Not charity,’ agrees Brienne. ‘Empathy. Not that you’d be familiar with it.’

‘And out of everybody she’s asking _you?’_ Jaime shakes his head. ‘You’re not ready for this.’

‘You don’t think I’m strong enough?’

‘No,’ he says, and it’s only now that she notices the coldness in his voice. ‘You’re not, and it’s time you realised it.’

She wants to hit him then, but they’re stepping onto a crowded train and she can’t do so without attracting attention.  As it is, she’s only able to turn away from him and pretend he isn’t there. He didn’t have to come to meet her, he shouldn’t have, but hell will freeze over before Jaime Lannister thinks something through before doing it.

Neither of them speaks until they’re back at the flat. Standing in the dark hallway while he fumbles for keys gives her a weird sense of déjà vu. The last time she was here, he didn’t know that she was alive. She’s having a hard time forgetting the look on his face when he saw her, that mixture of relief and incredulity that will probably never grace his features again.

Once they’re inside, she has the energy to defend her case.

‘ _How dare you_ ,’ she says, and straightens her shoulders to emphasize her height. In her life being tall hasn’t always been a good thing, but every so often comes an occasion where she relishes her ability to tower over other people. ‘Do I need to remind you what I’ve done? _Gregor fucking Clegane_ couldn’t kill me, nor could he keep me in his company. I made my way home with nothing, no money, no passport, no rich family to bail me out the moment something goes wrong. Everything in my life I have had to fight for and I’m here right now because I won.’

In the dim glow cast by the ceiling light, Jaime looks older. He receives her tirade unflinching, though from the set of his jaw she can tell he’s surprised. Brienne’s confidence is usually of the quiet and modest kind. He’s boasted half a hundred times about his prowess, but until now he’s never heard her assert a claim to the power that is hers.

‘You’re not immortal,’ he says quietly, after a moment. ‘And you aren’t a detective, either.’

‘I’m aware.’ Brienne turned away to carry her bags through to her room. When she re-emerges, he’s closed the curtains and put the kettle on.

‘Let’s get something straight,’ he says, pulling two mugs off the shelf and dropping teabags into them. Brienne is about to object to the sensibility of having caffeine this late until she recognises the box they’re from, and suppresses an eye-roll. All his grumbling about herbal tea, and the moment she’s not around he’s got boxes of the stuff.

‘You can’t go to Varys,’ Jaime continues. ‘He won’t say yes. In fact, he’ll expressly ban you from taking any action.’

‘Are you _helping_ me?’ This is too much for one night. ‘What happened to me not being capable?’

‘You’re as stubborn as you are tall, but you’re one of the rare people who don’t leave hair all over the shower, so I see it as in my interest not to get you killed. Who knows who I’d have to live with otherwise. So yes, I’m helping you. Is that a problem?’

‘If you have any ideas other than ‘Don’t Tell Varys’, I’m all ears.’

He pours the tea, and slides her mug across the table. It’s too hot to drink, but she wraps her hands around it.

‘My brother may be able to help.’ Jaime says it reluctantly, but it’s still the first positive thing he’s said so far. ‘Whether he will is another matter.’

‘Tyrion?’ Apart from Cersei, Brienne’s never met any of Jaime’s family. That’s not to say she doesn’t know about them – the Starks have a long and unpleasant history with Tywin, and Brienne’s heard rumours. ‘He’s not – ’

‘A field agent,’ Jaime finishes. ‘No, he works a desk job. He’s only one rung below Varys, though, and if anyone can read him, it’s Tyrion.’

‘Is he ambitious?’ Brienne tries the tea. It smells like peppermint, though it tastes generically herbal-y.

‘Not exactly. I’d describe him more as damage control.’

‘Do you think he’ll help us?’

‘Will he go against Varys? Yes. Will he do it for me? Doubtful.’ Jaime sips his own tea, thoughtful. ‘I might be able to appeal to his conscience.’

Brienne can barely contain a snort.

‘I realise how that sounds. Tyrion’s really too moral to belong to my family. He’s the best of us, that I can freely admit.’

‘I hope that’s true.’

‘I’ll text him now, we can talk properly tomorrow.’

‘Isn’t your phone bugged?’

‘Not any more. He fixed mine while you were away, as a birthday present.’

‘You didn’t say it was your birthday.’

‘You never asked.’

She gets to her feet, still holding the mug. ‘I think I’ll go to bed now. Let me know when he responds.’

He nods, without looking up. His eyes are glued to his phone. She dithers for a moment over whether to say goodnight, and decides against it. Their alliance is tenuous at best, and by being familiar she only makes their disagreements worse.

 

‘He’ll do it,’ is the first thing Jaime says, the next morning. ‘He thinks you’re a mad woman, but he’ll help.’

‘What can he do, exactly?’ It’s funny, she was so anxious about whether she could handle being back in London, and now she’s here she’s too busy to think about it. Perhaps it’s the relief that it’s no longer about her. Brienne being a victim is old news, and she’s never been so happy to be ignored. ‘I mean, will he have access to what we – I – need?’

‘Not legally.’ If Jaime is bothered by her correction, he gives no sign. ‘However, as it’s not the most sensitive of information, he should be able to get hold of it pretty easily. It’s not like you’re after missile launch codes, or the security system at Buckingham Palace.’

The notification light on her phone is blinking. She picks it up. A message and a missed call from Selwyn. The conversation they’d had – was it really only yesterday? – had been brief and strained, neither side willing to compromise with the other. He couldn’t understand the urgency and she didn’t have the time to make him.

‘How long will it take?’ Brienne asks.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Does he – ’

‘He knows it’s an emergency. Nagging won’t help.’

She takes a deep breath. If what Jaime says is true, Tyrion is her best bet. She’s just going to have to hope that he comes through, otherwise she will _have_ to go to Varys, and damn the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking at my current outline, I can safely say that this shouldn't be less than twelve chapters in total. (And possibly/probably more.) 
> 
> As always, if you liked it or have any questions leave a comment below, or send me an ask at betweentheheavesofstorm.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I’ll miss you. I love you.’

On a list of people Jaime expected to on the doorstep, Taena Merryweather was so far near the bottom she might not have been on the list at all. And yet here she was, smiling serenely in a stylish black raincoat and looking laughably out of place in the grimy hallway.

‘What are you doing here?’ Jaime asks, crossing his arms and leaning across the doorframe to bar her entrance to the flat. He barely knows her, but she and Cersei are thick as thieves, which is hardly a testament to her character.

‘Helping you.’ Taena meets his gaze evenly. ‘And trust me, you need it.’

That sparks his curiosity, as he knows she knows it will, and he grudgingly steps aside to let her in. Under the coat, Taena’s wearing a gold dress that similar to, no it is, one of Cersei’s. 

Brienne’s eyes widen when the two of them appear in the living room. She doesn’t recognise Taena, Jaime realises, she only knows that the woman is stunningly beautiful and here for a reason.

He clears his throat. ‘This is Taena Merryweather, my sister’s partner.’

The confusion clears from Brienne’s eyes, and she nods politely. ‘I’m B – ’ she begins, but Taena interrupts.

‘I know who you are. And what you’re doing.’ She glances around the flat, and then. ‘Catelyn Stark wants you do find her daughters, correct?’

Brienne nods stiffly. Her eyes dart to Jaime, and then back to their guest. ‘How do you know?”

‘Nobody told me, if that’s what you mean. It isn’t hard to figure out.’

It’s Jaime’s turn to speak. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I told you. I can help you.’

‘How?’

‘By telling you not to bother. The whole thing stinks of Vargo Hoat, and if he’s got the Stark girls you’ll never find them. It’s suicide to try.’

‘Why warn us?’ Jaime frowns. ‘It’s unlike my sweet sister to be so sentimental.’ _Especially when it’s not my life that’s at stake._

‘Cersei doesn’t know I’m here.’ She looks at Brienne. ‘I heard what happened to you. It would be idiotic to throw your life away after surviving that.’

‘Vargo Hoat’s no worse than the Mountain,’ Brienne says steadily. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘Not worse, perhaps, but hardly an easy target. Without official backing, you won’t stand a chance.’

‘Is this all you came to tell us?’

Taena blinks. ‘You would do well to listen to me.’

‘How did you hear Hoat was behind it?’

At this, she smiles. ‘There was a meeting about it. Some of his men were spotted in Birmingham, when Sansa Stark was last seen. Of course, being off-duty, you two wouldn’t have heard.’

Jaime looks at Brienne. She’s got a look on her face that reminds me of a horse that’s taken the bit between its teeth. It’s worrying.

To Taena, he says, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you.’ She looks amused by the courtesy. ‘I should probably be getting on. I hope my advice has been helpful.’

‘Very, thanks.’ Brienne is smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Are you sure we can’t get you anything?’

‘No, no, I’m leaving now.’ She starts towards the door, and then turns to Jaime. ‘Your sister sends her love. You two should spend more time together.’

He restrains a bizarre desire to laugh. ‘Oh, right. Tell her – ’ What? He misses her? He’d like to see her? Neither is even remotely true. ‘Oh, never mind.’

‘And you.’ Taena directs her gaze at Brienne. ‘There’s no need to run off on a wild horse chase and get yourself killed just to prove a point. If not for yourself, think of this poor sod.’

Brienne sets her jaw, and nods slowly.

‘No need to show me out.’ In a swish of shimmering gold fabric, Taena sweeps from the flat. They hear her footsteps in the hall, and then the door closing. Jaime wonders how much of her visit she’s going to tell Cersei. It feels like she’s only been there for five seconds. Five minutes is closer to the truth.

‘Tyrion’s replied,’ Brienne has pulled her computer onto her lap, and is eagerly scrolling through an email attachment. ‘For a case that’s not being followed up, they’ve got a lot of information on it.’

‘Efficiency.’ Jaime moves to stand behind the sofa, so he can read over her shoulder. His brother doesn’t mess around, he’ll say that. He reads a few lines of the text, and his heart drops out of his ribcage to collide with his stomach. ‘Brienne, this is ridiculous. You can’t go.’

‘Since when did I do as you say?’

‘Look at this. Taena’s right, it’s suicidal.’

She glances up at him, her blue eyes accusing. ‘You’re not usually this much of a pushover. She was here for thirty seconds and you’re doing as _Taena_ says?’

‘She raised good points.’

‘If this is all because you don’t think I can do it – ’

‘I don’t think anyone can do it. Not by themselves.’

Brienne takes a deep breath, and for a moment it looks like she might be about to give in. Then she snaps the laptop closed, and it occurs to Jaime that he really should know her better than to think that.

‘I’m only trying to – ’ he begins, but doesn’t get very far.

‘To what? _Help?_ I wonder why I don’t believe that.’ She sighs. ‘You can stop this routine, you know. It’s boring and unconvincing and it really doesn’t suit you.’

Well, now he’s lost. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You. Me. _This_. Getting along for the sake of it, pretending to be friends. Pretending you care about me. It’s stupid, and I’m sick of it.’ She looks him dead in the eye, and Jaime quakes inwardly. ‘I know you hate me. You’ve made it more than clear.’

His courage fails him. ‘Then you’re not as stupid as you look. Thank you, for reminding me. If you want to kill yourself chasing the impossible, be my guest.’

‘I’m glad that’s clear. Now if you’ll get out of my way, I need to pack.’

He moves past her to flop down on the recently vacated sofa. ‘Where to?’

‘Cornwall.’ She disappears into her room without another word. He has nothing to say, anyway. He stays on the sofa, playing games on his phone while she moves around the flat, gathering essentials into a small suitcase. It’s going to be blissfully quiet once she’s gone. Again. These days, Brienne seems to spend more time out of the flat than in it.

But that’s a good thing. It’ll do him a world of good, to be able to eat breakfast without somebody trembling with righteousness beside him. He could even invite somebody round. The appeal of the idea is fleeting. Jaime’s hardly inundated with offers. A year ago he wouldn’t have waited a moment before calling Cersei, and now, well. A lot can happen in a year.

(Which is another good thing, he tells himself. He and his sister would have destroyed each other if they’d kept going the way they were. Apart, they might just escape being fucked-up for life.)

Brienne interrupts this train of thought, clumping into the main room with a profoundly disgusted expression on her face. ‘The Davidsons are stroking a stray cat just outside. You’re going to have to come with me to the station.’

Jaime doesn’t move. ‘How did you get there from that?’

‘Fine, I’ll break it down. They’ll see me go past with a suitcase. Out of all our charming neighbours, they’re probably the nosiest. They’ll know I keep disappearing, and if you don’t come with me they’ll assume we’ve broken up.’

‘And the problem with that is?’

‘It was rule number one. _Don’t have relationship drama_. And while I don’t make a habit of liking Varys’s rules, this is a reasonable one.’

Jaime sighs, and very slowly raises himself off the sofa. ‘So I need to come and play the sad boyfriend. What’ll we tell them to excuse your leaving?’

‘Deaths in my family, and I’m sorting out legal things.’ She shrugs on her coat, and grabs the handle of the suitcase. ‘Well. You coming?’

Grudgingly, he finds his own jacket and zips it up. He’s still unused to all this coming and going; the staff at the tube station must know Brienne very well by now.

They leave in silence, neither feeling any desire to make small talk if it isn’t necessary. Brienne half-carries, half drags her suitcase down the stairs; letting it tumble so roughly he suspects she’s using it as an outlet for her anger. Given that the alternative is probably her hitting him, he’s not complaining.

Her prediction comes true as they pass the Davidsons. Both the parents and their kids are surrounding a skinny black-and-white tom, but when they hear people coming they look up and smile.

‘Not rushing off again?’ Mrs Davidson’s eyes zero in on the suitcase, as Brienne predicted they would.

Hoisting a sad smile onto his face, Jaime gives the brief explanation. Mrs Davidson and her husband nod and sigh, and offer Brienne their condolences.

‘Thank you.’ Her wan expression is only half fake. ‘It seems to be never-ending at the moment, but I hope to be home soon enough.’

‘Wish I could go,’ Jaime says. ‘Can’t get the time off work. I’ve been promised Skype calls, though.’

After a few more minutes of the couple routine, the Davidsons are satisfied and they’re able to continue on their way. They walk in step until they’re round the corner, and then Jaime moves to create a larger gap between them.

‘Think of the bright side,’ Brienne mutters, glancing at him. ‘If I die, we never have to do that again.’

‘Don’t tempt me. I could make it look like an accident.’

She laughs roughly, and somehow it’s easier when the elephant in the room has been acknowledged. _You don’t have to like each other to work together_ , Varys told them, a million years ago. Thank heavens he’s right.

 

They’ve been walking for another block when Jaime notices the guy in the beanie, strolling along on the other side of the street. He looks completely ordinary, and it’s that if anything that sets alarm bells ringing in Jaime’s head. He keeps a watch on the guy out of the corner of his eye, and after two more blocks it doesn’t feel like a coincidence that he’s following them anymore.

There are all number of explanations. Varys must know that Brienne’s back in London, but she hasn’t spoken to him so he’ll be wanting to know why. But Varys could just call if he wanted to. He has no reason to resort to something like this.

If he’s not responsible for sending the guy, Jaime can think of two more possible options. Either this man is one of Clegane’s, sent to scout out the one that got away. Failing that, he could be the sign of a third and unforeseen malignant force, one that’s grown a little suspicious of two people who claim to be a couple and yet never seem to want to be around each other. If it’s the latter, then this is the first time the strength of their cover is being put to the test.

Thankfully, the tube station’s not far. They hurry over a zebra crossing, and then they’re there. Brienne’s Oyster card needs topping up, so he accompanies her over to the machines. Jaime takes advantage of the wait to move close to her. Angling his head so that the guy can’t see his face, he mutters, ‘We’ve got a tail. Short white man, wearing a beanie.’

Brienne only tenses a little. ‘Whose?’

‘I don’t know. But you have to look sad saying goodbye.’

She moves her head very slightly in a movement he takes to be an affirmative, and then steps forward to pay the machine and touch her card again to the reader.

He walks her to the ticket barriers, conscious of the eyes burning into his back. The guy is now buying some cigarettes from the kiosk, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess where his attention really lies.

‘I wish this was over,’ Brienne says, reaching out to clasp his hands between her own. ‘I’ll be back soon, I promise.’

She’s smoother than he thought she’d be. ‘Call me, when it gets too much. If I get the time off at the end of the week I’ll come straightaway. I won’t even stop to pack.’

‘Oh no,’ she says laughingly, and he thinks he detects a glint of real humour in there. ‘You’d have to borrow my clothes. I don’t think they’ll fit.’

‘We’d sort something out.’

‘I’ll miss you. I love you.’

‘I love you too.’ This isn’t enough, he can tell. They can’t make their conversation louder without make it obvious. Something more is needed to really sell it.

‘Hurry back,’ he says, and before he has time to think how stupid it all is he’s darting forward to kiss her.

Brienne sees him coming and guesses what he’s up to, and he could kiss her for real because she goes with it, leaning down and meeting his lips with her own. It’s soft and swift and so familiar he feels a little giddy.

‘Bye,’ she says, and hurries through the turnstiles as if she thought if she waited a moment longer she wouldn’t go at all.

Jaime stands there until she’s out of sight. He doesn’t know if it was enough, if they were convincing, but when he turns to leave the guy with the beanie has disappeared. He takes that as a good sign, walking slowly back out of the station and trying not to celebrate the fact that they carried it off. It takes visible effort to slow his walk and remove the bounce from his steps, but he manages somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I'm updating this at 1.30am because I can't sleep instead of saving it for tomorrow afternoon, but eh. (I have a seven am start tomorrow. That is going to be a real picnic.)
> 
> As always, I hope you liked it and if you did please take a minute to leave a comment below. If you have any specific questions, either comment them or shoot me an ask at betweentheheavesofstorm.tumblr.com


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She didn’t want it to mean anything, it would be weird if it did and right now, the last thing she needs in her life is more weirdness.

Jaime kissed her.

Intentionally. Knowingly. Not sincerely, of course, but still. It was still something that happened.

The last time Brienne kissed anyone, she was fifteen and at a birthday party. It was one she’d looked forward to attending – she’d dressed up especially for it. Only when she got there had she realised how ridiculous she looked in the glittery pink frock. The way it was cut emphasised the breadth of her shoulders, and even then she was a head taller than everyone else. Compared to the other girls, who were all small and skinny to the point of fairy-like, she felt like a troll. And not the internet kind – the lives-in-a-cave-and-carries-a-club kind. Nobody explicitly told her that the dress looked awful, but the awkward giggles and sideways glances had told her enough.  

It’s not a nice memory to dwell on. Stepping onto an Underground train and pulling her suitcase towards the nearest available seat, she tries to think of other things. She’s booked into a cute B&B, and once she gets to Falmouth station she can go straight there. Catelyn’s paying – she insisted, and with the Stark money being what it is, Brienne found it difficult to resist. It’s not unreasonable, given that she’s not being paid for the work itself.

The party grew steadily worse the longer it went on. There wasn’t anybody she could talk to, and she couldn’t dance. Brienne had wanted desperately to call Selwyn and ask him to pick her up, only the girls were sure to laugh at her more if she chickened out. The kiss occurred in a game of truth or dare. Brienne was roped into it by the host, and couldn’t think of a way to refuse that wouldn’t seem rude. It was a nightmare, playing with people she didn’t like and didn’t trust. In a desperate effort to retain dignity, she’d opted for Truth at every turn. It hadn’t worked out for her. Instead of the general questions reserved for everyone else, Brienne received embarrassing queries that seemed to have no right answer. Whatever she said sent a ripple of titters around the room, and so on her next go she opted for Dare instead.

‘Kiss Lucas,’ one girl suggested, and her friends laughed their agreement.

Of the actual kiss, Brienne remembers little. Since it happened she has done her best to block it from her memory. There are worse dares they could have given her. Eat a slug, sing karaoke, take her shirt off. Still, the memory of Lucas’s pasty face looming nearer and his slobbery lips colliding with hers makes her shudder.

Jaime wasn’t like that.

Which makes perfect sense, if one considers the context. The two of them are adults in their late twenties, they had a role to play and Jaime must have had experience in that department. (She’s still slightly thrilled they carried it off. By all logic it should have been the most uncomfortable and awkward kiss in the world, and by some miracle it wasn’t. Go team.)

And now she’s the one acting stupidly, getting so focused on it. They were both doing a job, it didn’t mean anything. She didn’t want it to mean anything, it would be weird if it did and right now, the last thing she needs in her life is more weirdness.

 

It’s nicer once she’s off the tube, and sitting by the window on a Great Western train to Falmouth. It’s not too busy, and she’s able to pull out her laptop and review once more the information at her disposal. There are a few potential leads, the most promising being a girl of Sansa’s description spotted at a campsite. Brienne checks the location, and is relieved to find that it’s not far from her B&B. She can investigate the campsite first, and get a more coherent description from the site owner.

Forming plans is oddly soothing. The more she feels like she’s doing something instead of passively sitting there, the clearer her thinking is. If only she could get her mind off Jaime and his damned acting, she wouldn’t have a problem.

Surprisingly, by the time she reaches Falmouth her thoughts are elsewhere. It’s late in the day, and she’s starting to worry about the technicalities of the excursion. She’s only booked in for a few nights – it didn’t make sense to make the trip longer than it had to be. There are so many parts of it that can go wrong. The further Brienne goes, the more she feels like an awkward adult and less like a suave secret agent. Not that she’s ever been suave, but there’s a definite distinction.

It might just be that she’s unused to working alone. Sure, she crawled her way back from Italy without assistance, but this would feel a lot more like a routine mission if Jaime was in the adjacent seat, playing on his phone and grumbling about whatever mundane task they’d been sent to carry out.

When at last the train slides into the station at Falmouth, she has a slightly more coherent plan, and along with it a sense of direction. She sends a quick text to Catelyn _– “arrived, everything fine”_ – and approaches a member of station staff to ask about taxis.

She has to wait a while, but when she does get to the B&B it’s the cosiest place she’s ever seen.

‘We mostly have tourists,’ the owner tells her, opening the door to her room and ushering her inside. It’s quite small, with turquoise paint the colour of the sea and long white curtains at the window. A double bed stands at one end, which Brienne appreciates even though she’s come by herself, and there is a light brown IKEA wardrobe against the same wall as the door. For a few nights, it’s far nicer than she’d dared hope. ‘The holiday season’s over, now. You’ll have the beaches to yourself.’

‘That’ll be nice,’ Brienne smiles. ‘I’ve come down for a bit of peace and quiet.’

‘Where do you live the rest of the time?’

‘London. I love it, but it can get crazy sometimes. It was time for some fresh air and a change of scene.’ She’s not quite sure if the things coming out of her mouth don’t sound completely ridiculous, but she can’t stop herself. _A change of scene_ , that sounds like the sort of thing you read in an old-timey health brochure.

The owner of the B&B doesn’t seem perturbed by her stereotypical responses. After explaining where the bathroom and fire escape is, they inform her that breakfast is available from seven forty-five till nine, and if she has any allergies could she please let them know.

Brienne assures them that it will be fine, and once they’ve gone begins to unpack very slightly. If this was a sanctioned mission, her suitcase would be full of tiny radios and hidden cameras, but today the only suspicious thing is the semi-automatic wrapped in a cardigan underneath her other clothes. She hangs a couple of coats up in the wardrobe, sets the suitcase down in the bottom of it, leaving the majority of her clothes inside. She has her agent I.D., and can use it in a crisis, although hopefully that won’t be necessary. Not only would it blow her cover, but it would alert Varys to her intentions and she’d be in bigger trouble than she’d ever been in her life.

When she’s finished arranging the room to suit her tastes, she goes out to ask the owner if they can recommend any restaurants or takeaways where she could get a decent dinner. They point her towards a seaside chippie, twenty minute’s walk from the B&B.

On the way, she realises quite how patchy the mobile signal is. She only has to walk a hundred yards from the building to go down to one bar, and after another fifty she’s cut off completely. In a way, it’s a little reassuring – if anyone’s tracking her mobile, it will make their job more difficult. On the other hand, if she needs emergency backup it’s going to be tricky acquiring it.

Down at the beach front, a text comes through. It’s from Jaime, and she hesitates before opening it. Catching sight of the chip shop, she decides to put food above news, and stuffs her phone into her trouser pocket while she goes up to order.

The meal doesn’t take long to arrive, and when it does she’s impressed by the quality. The place must do good business every summer with holidaymakers, and the standard is above what she’s come to expect in London. Clutching the warm Styrofoam carton of battered haddock and chips, she walks down to sit on the sea wall and admire the view of the beach. It’s just past high tide, and so she can’t see much of the sand, only the little waves lapping at the shore. The light is fading, washing the colour out of the scene and adding a pink tint that reminds her of an Instagram filter.

For the first time in a while, Brienne has a sense of peace. In place of the roaring traffic of London or the imposing silence of the countryside she can hear seagulls caw and the rush of waves breaking. The breeze against her face is cold, but the food in her hands is warm and for once it feels like she has her life together.

She’s almost finished the meal when she remembers Jaime’s text. Extricating the phone from her pocket, she unlocks it and opens the message.

_“V called wanting to know where u are.”_

That didn’t take long. She replies, quickly. _“what did you say?”_

_“that u were taking a break to deal with trauma blah blah. if he calls u just deny any interest in the starks”_

_“ok.”_ Another day, she might have added ‘thanks’ but he kissed her only that morning and she couldn’t quite manage it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be half of a chapter, but my updates are completely out of wack (I'm so sorry about my inability to keep this regular) so I thought I'd upload it anyway.
> 
> As I've said before, keeping to outlines is really not my strong point, but this should be *at least* four more chapters, if not more.
> 
> If you liked it, have a question or just wanna talk about this ship, please leave a comment below or shoot me an ask at betweentheheavesofstorm.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With shaking hands, she digs her phone out of her bag pocket and scrolls through Contacts until she’s found Jaime’s number.

The campsite lead turns out to be a dud. Brienne endures waiting in a chilly reception for twenty minutes and then the incredulous stares of the proprietor. Apparently he’s never seen a woman that tall, for he remarks on it after a moment of gawping.

‘Yes, thank you.’ Comments on her height are rarely given as compliments, but they’re much easier to manage if she takes them as such. ‘Have you seen two white teenage girls, one about sixteen with auburn hair, the other twelve with short brown hair?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not recently, but the holiday season’s been and gone and we get all sorts. Can’t expect to remember everyone.’

‘This would have been very recently,’ Brienne tries again. ‘In the last week.’

‘Nope.’

Eventually, Brienne has to admit that she's looking in the wrong places. She's found nothing. Not at any of the campsites, or at the Tesco where another sighting was reported. Tyrion's files, that seemed so extensive, now appear brief as so little of the information is useful in practice.

She feels a little bad for taking advantage of Catelyn's money to score what has turned out to be a free holiday. She's keeping her friend updated, but there's only so many times she can text “ _no news”_ before it gets tiring for both of them.

Varys, on the other hand, has been in touch. She repeated the lie that Jaime gave her, and he might have believed it. It certainly wasn't _un_ believable, but her boss is hardly the most gullible of people.

'It certainly seems kind of Mrs Stark to fund your holiday like this,' he'd said, an element of idle curiosity creeping into his tone. 'Especially when she has so much on her mind.'

'She offered before her daughters disappeared,' Brienne replied. 'Catelyn and I are very close.' She did feel a little guilty about using her friend this way, but it couldn't be helped. Varys was always urging her to sacrifice her morals and do what she is asked, not what is right, but she'd always tried to resist. The idea of becoming - well, like Jaime, bitter at the systems of power but with no ambition for change - was intolerable.

Varys had left it at there, and for that she was grateful. Nor did she find any evidence that he was having her followed, which was a relief in itself. She did remember, after hanging up, that she hadn't asked about the tail that had followed them to the station. If it had been one of their men, Varys might not have acknowledged it, but it was worth a try.

Brienne considered texting Jaime to ask if he'd found anything out. It was still bothering her, the idea that they weren't as secure in the flat as they'd thought. In the end she decided against it. He would tell her if he'd found out anything important, and she didn't want to seem annoying, nagging about things that probably didn't matter.

By the last day of her trip, Brienne was more or less resigned to having wasted a weekend. It was a shame, though it had given her time to reflect - if that was worth anything. She packed up her room slowly, just a little relieved that she'd only needed the sunscreen, and not her gun.

 

The return train is busier than the one she’d been on before; Brienne has to walk through multiple carriages before securing a seat. When she does, it’s next to a young man with a laptop on his popup table. She takes an instant dislike to him, and from the disparaging glance he gives her when she sits down the feeling’s mutual. He has square-rimmed hipster glasses, an undercut and traces of stubble around his jaw, and she knows she shouldn’t judge by appearances but he looks just like every other white guy his age.

She hasn’t got anything to do, so for a while after the train starts off she just sits back and tries to subtly read her neighbour’s writing over his shoulder. From the formatting it looks like prose fiction, which only makes her more curious. It’s set in eleven point Times New Roman, though, and on his MacBook screen that is tiny. Brienne gives up quickly, and sends identical texts to Catelyn and Jaime: _“on train home. Nothing to report”_.

And then, because she’s bored and has nothing better to do, she sends another one just to Jaime. _“Sitting next to this guy who looks like a wannabe writer. Think hipster in a big way.”_ She doesn’t know how the sentiment will be received, but it’s an olive branch of sorts. A step back towards cooperation of the friendly kind, even if she doesn’t know if they’ll ever be totally clear where they stand with one another.

Thankfully, he seems to be in a similar mood because the reply is almost instantaneous.

_“call me and do a dramatic reading”_

_“I can’t, he already looks like he resents my existence”_

_“punch him, then”_

_“I’d have thought you would have empathized”_ She regrets sending that as soon as the message has left her outbox, but there’s nothing to be done but wait for a response.

_“only when u eat the last doughnut”_

_“We’ve never had doughnuts”_

_“i know it was hypothetical. if we did have doughnuts u would eat the last one”_ A second message arrives, seconds after the first. _“and also when ur right. which is a lot of the time. so yh, i do resent ur existence”_

Brienne is saved from having to think of a reply by the Pretentious Writer next to her getting up to use the toilet. She has to get up as well to be out of his way, which is inconvenient, though he leaves his laptop open. The moment he’s out of sight she cranes her neck to read it.

It isn’t actually as bad as she thought it might be. The paragraph her eyes land on is a flowery description of someone who’s too much of a manic pixie dream girl to be real. Brienne takes a picture of the screen and sends it to Jaime. She’s only just finished in time, the Pretentious Writer is returning. He casts a suspicious eye over his laptop, but Brienne is pretending to be absorbed in Candy Crush, and so he keeps his dignity and doesn’t ask.

Jaime doesn’t reply, not to the picture or the message accompanying it. Either he doesn’t think it’s worth responding to, or more likely, he’s been distracted. He can be like a dog in that respect; it only takes something shiny to divert his attention completely.

She spends the rest of the journey home on the Guardian app, using up data and reading about current events as well as the odd sarcastic review. The Pretentious Writer next to her taps away, writing his award-winning novel in the making. It’s all too easy to imagine the protagonist; a cynical carbon copy of the creator, who doesn’t believe in Love, or Miracles, or something like that.

(Brienne’s not sure she does, either, when it comes down to it, but she’s less of an arse about it. And that’s not to say she doesn’t like all forms of love. Without friendship and family, she wouldn’t have anything. It’s romance that she’s got issues with.)

The train gets in to Euston just after nine. She has a panic when she thinks she’s lost her Oyster card, but it’s in the side pocket of her bag. One day, she thinks while descending a flight of steps to get down to the Underground, she’ll have a job where train journeys will be unnecessary. In the past month alone she’s spent more time on a train than she ever wants to again.

Despite that irritation, it’s good to be in London. What she told the owner of the B&B is true, it can get overwhelming sometimes, but ultimately London still feels like the centre of everything, and that’s attractive.

When she emerges from the tube, a little part of her is hoping that Jaime might be at the station. He isn’t, of course, and she chides herself for the silliness of the thought. He disappeared halfway through their conversation; he’s clearly got other priorities. Besides, the time he did come to pick her up they had an argument.

Glancing around the station, she’s reminded of what happened the last time she was here. Once the memory’s taken hold, she realises she’s going to spend the whole way home looking over her shoulder to see if she’s being followed. And she does, walking alone with her little suitcase. Nobody approaches her, nor does she notice anyone, but it’s dark and would be harder to tell. She finds herself shrinking away from every streetlamp she passes, not wanting to be too visible. The gun is right at the bottom of the suitcase, if she needed it she’d never get it out in time.

She turns the corner and comes in sight of her building. A little of the tension inside her dissipates at the familiar outline. Nobody is going to attack her; she’s being ridiculous. If anyone wanted to neutralize her they would have done it while she was in Cornwall. Much less chance of there being witnesses, nor would she have any available backup.

With that in mind, Brienne breathes more easily the closer she gets to home. By the time she’s unlocking the main door, all of the tension has left her body. She heaves her suitcase into the dim lobby and drags it towards the stairs. None of the neighbours emerge as she trudges up the stairs. They must be used to her endless appearing and disappearing by now.

Her stride lengthens as she reaches her floor. She’s already picturing sinking onto the sofa with a cup of tea. Biscuits, too, if Jaime hasn’t eaten them all.

Brienne is so absorbed in her warm fantasy of a cosy evening that she doesn’t notice anything wrong until she’s standing right outside the door. Only then does she notice how it isn’t locked, isn’t even shut properly. The lock is broken, and the wood immediately around it is caved in, indicating it’s been hit with force.

Mouth suddenly very dry, Brienne drops her suitcase and pushes the door open. It’s very dark inside, and when she hits the hall light switch she’s not sure what she’s expecting to see. The hall is relatively empty, but when she hurries through into the living room it’s all she can do not to cry out. The heavier pieces of furniture are in their usual places. It’s the lighter stuff, lamps, vases, that sort of thing, that are strewn everywhere. The TV has been knocked off its stand, and the coffee table looks like somebody’s landed heavily on it. She doesn’t have to be a secret agent to recognize it as the scene of a fight.

Her heart is beating so fast she thinks it might burst out of her chest. For a moment she stands frozen to the spot, and then she turns her back on the scene and runs back to the grimy hallway, the safe neutral hallway where nothing has changed.

With shaking hands, she digs her phone out of her bag pocket and scrolls through Contacts until she’s found Jaime’s number. It takes her several tries to hit _Call_ successfully.

The phone rings once, twice, and then three times. After the fifth ring it goes to answerphone. She goes to the messaging log and checks the time of his last correspondence. It’s the text about her always being right, and was sent three hours ago. A lot can happen in three hours.

Maybe, she tells herself, walking back into the flat, he wasn’t in. Maybe he was off seeing family or meeting friends or buying groceries. Maybe this was a search, done messily so as to serve as a threat. Maybe it isn’t her fault.

Maybe.

The illusion shatters when she returns to the room, and for the first time looks down. There’s a huge reddish-brown stain soaking into the floorboards, elongated in a way that looks like whoever was bleeding was dragged across the floor for at least a foot and a half.

Brienne’s panic is giving way to a sense of deeply rooted dread. Her phone is still in her hand. Moving on autopilot, she raises it to her ear again, doing what she really should have done first.

Varys picks up on the second ring. ‘Yes?’

‘He’s gone.’ The words sound stupid, blank, inadequate to explain the situation. ‘Jaime. I just got back, and there’s been a break in and he’s not answering his phone. Someone followed us to the station when I last left, and now _he’s gone._ ’

There was a short silence. And then, ‘I know.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half of what was supposed to be one chapter. Can you tell I love melodrama?
> 
> As always, if you liked it or have any questions, leave a comment below or send me an ask at betweentheheavesofstorm.com


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘He wasn’t taken because of who he was. He was taken because of me.’

The first thing Cersei says when Brienne walks in the door is, ‘This is your fault.’

She acknowledges the comment, but doesn’t react otherwise. Cersei doesn’t have the power to hurt Brienne anymore, that luxury is restricted to a select few nowadays. And now one of them is missing.

The only thing Cersei can do is help, and whether she will is still uncertain. Brienne had barely got off the phone with Varys when Jaime’s sister called her, demanding to know what had happened. While Brienne’s never liked the Lannisters as a family, she allowed that they had a right to know what was going on.

‘Even Father’s here,’ Cersei adds, closing the door behind her guest. The hallway alone of Tywin’s townhouse gives an impression of his wealth. Brienne takes off her coat and hangs it on a hook, conscious that she seems even taller without it. Cersei is the same height as her brother, nearly a foot shorter than Brienne. Her gleaming blonde hair is pulled back into a smart chignon, and she wears only a little makeup.

‘And Tyrion?’

Cersei nods curtly. Her feelings towards her youngest sibling are far from secret.

She leads Brienne through to the living room, where Tyrion and Tywin reside. The house looks like something out of a fashion magazine, and it occurs to Brienne that while Jaime might be an arsehole about everything else, he’s never been so about money.

Tywin looks more or less how she imagined him. Tall and grey-haired, with stern grey eyes and hints of the same jawline as his elder son. He and Cersei are both wearing suits; from the expensive cut they’re probably designer. In contrast to them, Tyrion is positively casual. The younger man is sitting in an armchair, clad in jeans and a dark red sweatshirt. He smiles politely at Brienne’s entrance; indeed, he’s the only one there who doesn’t look like he wants to kill her.

‘So you’re the infamous housemate,’ Tyrion says, before Cersei can say anything else. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘Only good things, I hope,’ Brienne manages, and is rewarded by a smile. Even Cersei looks vaguely amused, though she also seems to be annoyed by it.

Tywin coughs quietly, and they all glance his way. ‘Please take a seat,’ he says to Brienne. ‘May we offer you any refreshments?’

‘No, thank you.’ She’d much rather remain standing, but it’s clear that won’t be an option. Casting a cursory glance around the room, Brienne takes an armchair adjacent to Tyrion’s. Tywin and Cersei take the grey couch opposite. Side-by-side, the family resemblance is quite striking. Cersei has the same downward curl of the lips, and even though her eyes burn while his are cold they share the same predatory light. Sitting opposite, Brienne feels pinned in place by their joint gaze.

‘So,’ Tywin says, in a voice that would be pleasant if it didn’t sound quite so dangerous. ‘If you’d do us the courtesy of explaining what has happened to my son?’

Brienne clears her throat, and begins awkwardly. She starts with the abduction of the Starks. It seems as good a place as any and it hardly seems worth keeping that mission secret anymore. Not wanting to incriminate him, she leaves Tyrion’s parts out, glossing over the source of her leads and quickly skipping to her leaving for Cornwall. When she glances to him, she thinks she sees a flash of gratitude in his eyes.

While Tywin listens attentively throughout the story, Cersei is a more impatient audience. When Brienne explains that her last communication with Jaime was texting on the train, (‘he didn’t sound distressed at all, I would go for bored’) she snorts, as if she can’t comprehend the idea that her brother might be friendly with anyone so many wage brackets below.

‘A forensics team came to the flat this morning,’ Brienne concludes. ‘They confirmed the traces of blood were Jaime’s, but that doesn’t tell us much.’

‘And you called Varys?’ Tywin’s face is unsettlingly impassive.

‘Varys doesn’t know anything,’ Cersei cuts in. ‘I asked him. You should get it by now, he always lets on to know more than he does.’

‘Actually,’ Brienne says a little hesitantly, as she doesn’t relish the prospect of being shredded alive by somebody with gold-painted fingernails, ‘He told me quite a lot. As Jaime’s partner, I was given access to the information.’

The fire dies abruptly from Cersei’s eyes. In seconds, they are as cool and steely as her father’s.

Tyrion leans forward. ‘What information would that be?’

Brienne steels herself. ‘He wasn’t taken because of who he was. He was taken because of me.’

‘Go on,’ Tywin prompts, his features still inscrutable.

‘I imagine you remember the last assignment Jaime and I were sent on. I angered certain people by escaping before they could kill me. It transpires they haven’t forgotten it.’

‘So they took Jaime to get at you,’ Tyrion supplies. He doesn’t seem shocked.

‘What is Varys’s plan, then?’ Cersei inquires. ‘He must have thought of something.’

‘He has.’ Every time Brienne thinks about it, she feels sick to her stomach. ‘Varys has reason to believe that they aren’t holding Jaime as bait. Rather, they’ll want to get information from him – about me – and if he cooperates, they’ll release him.’

Both Cersei and Tywin relax almost instantly. Cersei in the most obvious fashion, exhaling and leaning back; her father merely softening his posture a little.

‘That settles it, then,’ Cersei says. She’s almost smiling.

‘Indeed.’ Tywin inclines his head. ‘Thank you for informing us.’

Brienne isn’t surprised by their reaction. She’s had plenty of encounters with Lannister pride before, so this is not a shock. More hurtful was the fact that Varys agreed with them. (‘I know you two seem to have gone on some sort of bonding experience, but I am not blind to reality. Whatever his duty as your partner, I can’t deny I expect him to look after himself.’)

‘I’ll let myself out,’ she says, getting up.

‘You insult our hospitality,’ Tyrion says mildly, rising to join her. Brienne stifles a small smile, and walks with him through to the hall, and the front door that she’d seen only moments ago.

‘I would apologise for my sister’s manners, but you’re aware by now that she’s never had any.’

‘It’s OK. If I let your family upset me, I’d never get anywhere in life.’ She looks down at him, feeling stupidly tall. ‘Do _you_ think he’d do it?’

Tyrion ponders for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ he says at last. ‘I suppose that’s something remarkable in itself. I can usually rely on Jaime to think for himself first and others later.’

‘Thank you.’ She leans forward to open the door, and is halfway out of it when Tyrion calls her back.

‘Will you go after him?’

Her gaze flickers. ‘I may not have to.’

 

________________________

 

He was trained for this. All agents have to prove that they can withstand most methods of interrogation. He remembers it as an unpleasant few weeks, but it never seriously occurred to him that it might actually happen. He was too good, too fast. He wouldn’t get caught. He might never _have_ been caught, if it wasn’t for her.

Only now it is happening, and he’s not taking it well. They’re so much smarter than he expected, so much more terrifying. They know how to make things hurt, how to figure out what it is he can’t bear to lose and take it from him. His nerve endings must be exhausted, they’re more active now than ever before.

He could stop it all. A few words could have him leaving the room a free man, instead of a dead one. It would be so easy. Just a few words. Nobody would condemn him. He’s a Lannister, heck they’d expect it from him.

It would be so easy to save himself.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not abandoning this fic I promise, I'm just busy and I'm technically supposed to be writing my creative writing coursework. (But this is a lot more fun.)
> 
> The next chapter is actually mostly written, so it should go up very soon barring any potential disasters.
> 
> I *hope* this will be finished before Christmas - I might make my final deadline the New Year. 
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed it or have any questions please leave a comment or come bother me at betweentheheavesofstorm.tumblr.com


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘You really are going to leave him there, then?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mention of violence & torture

Brienne gives Jaime until the next morning to betray her. After that, she goes into the office, ready to fight her way out if need be. Varys is in his office, playing games on his phone. He’s clearly expecting her, and she isn’t surprised.

‘I know you think this is unnecessary,’ she says to him, walking up to his desk and ignoring the chair stood in front of it. He stays sitting down, and the height difference reaches comical proportions. ‘But if he was going to sell me out, he would have done it by now.’

‘Of course.’ Though there is another alternative. He may have been killed as a result of his refusal to cooperate.’

She acknowledges the comment with a tilt of her head. ‘And he might be waiting for me.’

‘Don’t be sentimental,’ Varys chides. ‘He doesn’t care that much. He won’t be expecting you.’

 ‘He doesn’t and he will.’

‘How do you reach that conclusion?’

‘Jaime knows what you seem to be forgetting. I’m a good person. I don’t let people suffer on my account if I can help it.’

Varys’s eyebrows twitch. She might, she thinks, have surprised him. For somebody so perceptive, he can be dense about her naivety, or occasional lack of it.

‘If you insist,’ he says. ‘It is of course standard protocol to launch an extraction team. As his partner it would only be fitting for you to lead it. Unfortunately,’ he pauses, she assumes for effect. ‘We happen to be rather busy at this minute. We have hints of civil unrest right left and most of the resources that at this time we’d be able to pool we simply don’t have.’

‘Surely there must be emergency reserves.’

‘Yes, but we save those for _emergencies.’_

‘Jaime is – ’

‘I know where Jaime is. However, he is just one man. One agent. It will not be the end of the world if we lose him. It isn’t as if he’s a civilian, either. The danger he’s in is an occupational hazard, one that he was more than aware of.’

Brienne bites her lip, and looks away. She can understand what he’s saying, and to a certain extent she can sympathize. If it were somebody else – Cersei, perhaps – she could see the sense in Varys’s words. Though Cersei is a bad example, as if she were in danger Brienne isn’t sure she’d stir so much as a finger to free her.

‘He’s a good agent,’ she says quietly. ‘Resourceful, and can think on the spot. He’s skilled in combat, he’s even a half-decent actor.’

‘So are many others,’ Varys says calmly. ‘So are you.’

‘You really are going to leave him there, then?’

The answer doesn’t need saying, and it infuriates her. She doesn’t matter to him, any more than Jaime does. Varys is a player, but they are only pawns. Or maybe castles. Valuable, yes, to a certain extent, but if necessary they can be sacrificed.

Brienne sets her jaw. ‘Send me, then.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Me. Just me. We don’t have a backup team, fine. I’ll go in myself.’

‘I could never sanction such a mission. Even the most competent agents aren’t permitted to work solo. There’s a reason you have partners. And you’re, well…’

‘Not sufficiently competent? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘You have done remarkable things for a person your age,’ Varys says instead. ‘You are a good agent, and with more experience could become quite extraordinary. However, I hardly need remind you of the trauma you have experienced, and the fact that you are not licensed for active duty until you’ve been assessed and approved.’

‘Who else is going to do it? I’m good enough. I can manage.’ She meets his gaze squarely. ‘I’m like him, you said it yourself. Disposable.’  

He sighs. ‘I can’t officially condone this. It’s against every protocol we have.’

‘Do it unofficially, then. Write on the paperwork that you’re sending me with backup.’

‘Are you suggesting I lie?’

‘Don’t act like you’ve never done it before.’

The corner of Varys’s mouth jerks upward. ‘All right,’ he says eventually, though he still doesn’t sound happy about it.  ‘You can still go, minus the backup team.’ He looks as if he regrets the words the moment they’re out of his mouth. ‘You’ll be armed, of course, and should it be a complete disaster you will have a panic alarm.’

‘Thank you.’ He should realize that she’d go even if he hadn’t given her permission, and maybe he does.

‘I hope you’re thinking this through. You’ve already nearly died once this year, I thought it would put you off risky activities.’

‘That’s irrelevant.’

‘Would he do the same for you?

‘That doesn’t matter,’ she says, and wills it to be true. ‘His family clearly aren’t going to do anything to help, and so somebody has to save his conceited arse.’

‘Very well. Let it be said that I tried. Though perhaps it is best if nothing is said at all. I shouldn’t have to remind you that as far as anybody else is concerned, you’re on compassionate leave during the tragic absence of your partner.’

‘Thanks,’ she says again.

‘Wait until you’ve miraculously survived to send me a gift hamper,’ he says. ‘Of course, should it somehow not end in your grisly deaths, I will take credit for the whole affair.’

Brienne gets up, concluding their interview. ‘I wouldn’t expect any less.’

_________________

 

He doesn’t know which is worse, when they’re here or when they’re gone. When they’re here, he can barely think for screaming. Pain doesn’t have a location anymore, it’s everything that hurts. They ask him the same questions again and again, and every time he croaks a response his voice is hoarser. He can’t remember a time when his hair wasn’t drenched in cold sweat, or when he was at ease, truly at ease.

When they disappear, it’s almost as bad. He doesn’t sleep, he can’t sleep, he can only sit there and wait for them to come back. The stings and bruises throb painfully and he’s got no way of relieving them. Accompanying this is the dreadful anticipation of what they’ll do next. It eats away at him, the constant fear that whatever’s coming it’s going to be worse. It’s going to be damaging.

Not superficially; he can live with small scars. He always thought he could live with bigger ones too, but he’s never been threatened with them before. That's the real terror: that they're going to break him in a way that will be irreparable. He was trained to withstand shocks, burns and beatings, but the people that have him now prefer different approaches. They like to talk, too, about previous punishments they've inflicted, idle speculation designed to instill terror.

It's working. For the first time in his life, he fears for his eyes, his ears. His body. Pain is fine as long as it is only pain. Loss, on the other hand – that he can’t face.

She won't come for him. Of that he is certain. Brienne is kind and honorable and would do the right thing if it killed her and damned half the world, but she isn't stupid or unduly sentimental. He has given her no reason to like him, and worse, he did so deliberately. She was naïve, ugly, trusting. She had the flaws he most despised, and by some power turned them to virtues. He could have saved himself by becoming her friend, by making himself valuable to her, and instead he went for damnation.

(Isn't that what Lannisters do?)

_________________

 

Irritating though he is, Varys is true to his word. Brienne is provided with new assault gear, two firearms and is reminded about the button sewn into her right-hand sleeve.

‘If you press that, we’ll have to get people to work overtime, which they hate, and pay them for it, which we hate,’ he reminds her. ‘So unless your life depends on it, _don’t._ ’

More valuable still is the information Varys pulls out, regarding Jaime’s location. Once she’s been through a few of the files, Brienne realises how easily they determined why Jaime was being detained. The pieces fit together so easily that the obviousness seems deliberate.

‘Nobody’s this clumsy,’ Brienne says, frowning at a screen. ‘Is this part of their whole ‘make it clear they have the power’ scheme, or is it just a trap?’

‘It looks a lot like a trap, and yet I don’t believe it is one,’ Varys replies, and she hopes that she can trust what he’s saying. Her best reason for doing so at the moment is that it seems to be in his best interest to get both Brienne and Jaime back alive, and he can always be counted on to serve himself before others.

(The other reason is the fact that she’s been texting Tyrion and so far he’s confirming everything Varys has said. Brienne may be too trusting by nature, but she knows how to check her facts.)

It’s all in order far sooner than she’d hoped. She can’t go back to the flat, and hasn’t been since she first returned, so returns to the hotel where she’s been residing for the past two nights. She’s very quickly running out of clean clothes, though the hotel’s laundry service is remarkably good.

After popping out for a takeaway dinner, Brienne lies back and watches trashy TV in an attempt to calm her nerves. It’s normally a failsafe method, but either the shows are growing worse or she’s more anxious than before, because it doesn’t help in the slightest.

After half an hour of _Gilmore Girls_ reruns, she switches it off and calls her father. Selwyn hasn’t been privy to most things in her life, even though nowadays he knows what her real job is. Given that her odds of survival are so depressing, she feels he deserves a heads-up.

He’s glad to hear from her, which only adds to the guilt weighing on her chest. She’s all he has, and if something happens to her he’ll be by himself. She introduces the topic gently, trying to make it sound like the mission isn’t as dire as it is. He’s no idiot, though, and soon realizes what she’s saying.

‘Is it only you that can go?’

‘It is. I’m sorry, I wish it wasn’t but it is.’

‘And this is your…partner? You didn’t tell me you were in a relationship.’

‘He isn’t – I’m not – I don’t mean partner in that sense. We work together. It was part of our cover to act like we were dating, but it isn’t like that between us.’

‘And yet you’re going to these lengths to save him?’

‘Dad, it’s the right thing to do.’

Selwyn pauses. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’m not happy about it, though.’

‘I’m not asking you to be. I just thought you deserved to know.’ _Since the last time I had a near-death experience, you had no idea what was really going on_.

‘I appreciate that.’

‘I’ve missed you, living in London.’

‘And I you. I wish you’d had a longer holiday.’

‘Yeah. When this is over, I swear I will.’ The only other things she can say will sound like goodbyes, and she can’t face that. She talks instead about mundane things, little occurrences that have no deeper meaning. He doesn’t push for a more serious topic, and they’re both grateful.

After Selwyn, she calls the only other person she’d miss. Catelyn picks up on the second ring. In all her own dismay, Brienne has momentarily forgotten that Sansa and Arya are still missing.

The conversation with Catelyn is much shorter. Neither side needed, or can say much. Oddly, it’s much more comforting than talking to Selwyn – perhaps it’s the reminder that whatever happens to her, the world will continue to turn. Catelyn can’t help her now, and Brienne wouldn’t want to. The fewer people that are mixed up in this, the better.

‘The only thing I don’t get,’ the older woman says, near the end of the conversation. ‘Is what it is the Lannister boy could know that’s so valuable. You’re clearly a wonderful agent and a danger to them, but what is it you know? The secret that could destroy everything?’

‘I’m not actually sure,’ Brienne confesses. Another time she’d be hesitant about telling Catelyn, but right now she has to discuss it with somebody. It’s been eating her up inside, the knowledge that she knows something Jaime’s being tortured for. Supposedly, he knows it too. ‘I have theories, but nothing certain. I think – Varys thinks – it might be because I got close to Gregor Clegane over the summer. I’ve been in his private jet. I suppose theoretically that could give me an advantage – I know the layout inside, et cetera. Any of his enemies would want to know that.’

‘And they’d assume you’d have told your partner?’

'Yes. The only other conceivable thing I can think of is that they don't know where I was. They might have come to the flat looking for me, only I was in Cornwall. As soon as I found the flat in the state it was in I left, and I've been in hotels since.'

'I suppose you'll find out,' Catelyn says. 'And I know this is terribly selfish of me to ask - but if you hear anything about my girls, I'd really appreciate it if you let me know.'

'Of course. I'm sorry for abandoning you like this.'

'You've done all you can. I realise that. Besides,' Catelyn attempts a chuckle. It doesn't quite work. 'Jaime Lannister is not going to rescue himself. The only thing I ask is when you return him, get a photo of Tywin's face.'

The mental image is enough to make Brienne laugh a little. 'Of course.'

She looks at her phone for a long time after the conversation ends. She wants to call someone else, for there to be anyone else she could call.  If they’d been working together longer, she might have spoken to Tyrion, but as it is it would only make things weird. She texts him instead. _“going tomorrow. Thank you for all your help.”_ Not too long after, she receives the reply. It’s just two words.

_“good luck”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This had a proper outline at the beginning, I swear.
> 
> As I said before, I'm hoping to be finished by Christmas but that may be a tad on the optimistic side. 
> 
> If you enjoyed it or have any questions, please leave a comment! :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing has changed since her last assessment, everything is in its place. Still, she can't shake off the feeling that she's forgotten something, is missing something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence

Brienne sleeps fitfully that night. She dreams that she’s in the enemy stronghold, only to discover it’s Taena and not Jaime who’s being held hostage. Taena laughs at her surprise, a loud cruel laugh that makes Brienne’s head pound. She turns around and Cersei is there, wearing a blue blouse and suit that Brienne recognizes as her own. She wakes suddenly, and is relieved to see dawn light streaming in through the curtains.

She dresses slowly. The gear is brand-new, it’s easy to tell from its starched stiffness. The secret service is the only employer that’s had uniforms in her size. They come labeled as ‘XXL Men’s’ but for once, they fit.

Going through the motions by herself feels like a parody of the usual routine. It's jarring, and keeps her from settling into a calm mechanical state. That's both good and bad - it won't hurt to be alert, especially now there isn't anybody watching her back - but she's always better at her job the more relaxed she is.   

The possibility of it being a trap is still going round and round her head. Varys swore it wasn't and Tyrion backed him up, but if it isn't a trap she's not sure what it is. A power play? A threat? Or just clumsiness? She mustn't assume it's incompetence, underestimating is the worst of bad calls to make.  

She checks out of the hotel early and catches a bus to a garage in Lewisham. For once, she’s being spared a train journey. For missions like these agents need to be able to control their movements, and so Varys has given her the keys to a spare Land Rover. It’s the first, and probably only time Brienne will ever have a company car to herself, and despite the butterflies she gets a slight sense of satisfaction from it.

The drive’s more stressful than she expected. It’s been a while since she was last on the motorway, and this is a bigger vehicle than she’s used to. The only upside of having to concentrate is that it keeps her mind off what she’s about to do. Still, it’s with relief that she comes off the motorway and onto the smaller country roads. By the time she’s got to her destination, her joints are stiff and her nerves are rising again.

She parks the car in front of a gate, on a small grass verge by the side of the road. The green Land Rover's wheels dig into the mud. It looks similar to most of the other vehicles around, but its shininess makes it stand out. No cars that have spent much time in the country are that clean. She considers grabbing a handful of mud from a nearby ditch and smearing it over the door panels, but it doesn't seem worth it. She'll only get mud all over herself, and if this mission fails it probably won't be because of the car.  

Hoisting her pack onto her back and strapping her gun to her hip, Brienne locks the car and climbs over the hedgerow. She's got a paper map of the area in her back pocket, and scrutinized it during a traffic jam on the M40. If she keeps along the west bank of this field and then follows the trees up to the that hill, from the top she should be able to see the warehouse. Most missions show night attacks, but Brienne's not interested in making things more difficult for herself. Instead, she's going to sneak in an hour before dusk. It's perfect. The majority of the guards probably won't have eaten yet, and will be tired. Even if they notice something small, it's more likely to go underreported when they know any suspicious things will delay their evening meal.  

She reaches the tree line. They're relatively young trees; a mixture of beech and horse chestnuts. Conkers roll away under her feet and she has to take care not to tread on the dry leaves. There was a horse chestnut tree in the garden at home. It's not the nicest of memories; the tree became diseased and died when Brienne was nine.   

The hill is only a small one, more of a rise in the landscape than anything else. She can see the warehouse, but only because it's tacked onto the edge of an enormous power station. The harsh grey buildings are an abrupt change from the soft green countryside.  

Brienne stops, and leans against the nearest tree. She's got an hour or so before she needs to do anything. Her eyes trace the route down to the industrial park, and then she ducks behind the tree and into the little copse she's been walking alongside. It's unlikely anybody will be looking out in this direction - it would make far more sense for any attackers to come by road - but it can't hurt to be careful.  

Once hidden by the trees, she takes off her pack and checks everything. It's the third time she's done so. Nothing has changed since her last assessment, everything is in its place. Still, she can't shake off the feeling that she's forgotten something, is missing something.  

It's just nerves, she tells herself. She hasn't been on an actual mission since Italy, and the stakes are higher this time. If she gets this wrong, it doesn't mean Varys is going to get irritated and tell her off. If she gets this wrong.... well, she loses Jaime.  

In a way, she's lost him already. It's probably better to think that way, to imagine he's already gone and this is just a last shot. The thought of failing repels her, but she forces herself to consider it. Disaster is easier to take when you've already considered it as a possibility.  

If she fails, he will die. His family will be furious and Tywin will do his best to ruin her life. If she's ever be allowed to work again, she'll be partnered with somebody else. Maybe they won't hate her. She might get somebody amazing, all because she couldn't save Jaime Lannister.  

Having established that everything is in order, Brienne sits in the grass, her back against one of the sturdier trees. She's never liked this empty space in between things. Stuck at a red light in traffic, waiting for a printer to get the message, arriving somewhere early and hanging around for a friend to show up. These little moments when she can think of everything, or nothing at all. Snatches of time, that's what they are. The gaps between paragraphs. They don't mean anything, she forgets them the moment they're over. She almost wishes she'd brought a book.   

Irritating as this limbo is, she hates leaving it more. It's one thing to repeatedly tell yourself that you're going to do something, but it's something else entirely to actually do it. When her watch reads 4.30pm she gets up, stretches and lifts her pack once more onto her shoulders. It isn't heavy. She's been through the contents multiple times: a small coil of rope, a water bottle, a tourniquet and some bandaging and a second semi-automatic. Hopefully, she won't need any of it.  

The hill is steeper on the other side. She keeps close to the hedgerows, skirting around the edge of the field. A couple dozen cows are milling around, cropping the muddy grass. Dairy cows, she's assuming. She has to squeeze past one to get through the gate. Asking the cow to move is easy; Brienne's tall enough to be intimidating and nowadays cattle are bred to be docile. It stares at her with baleful brown eyes that have a strange vacancy to them.   

Life must be a lot simpler when you're a cow.   

She climbs over the gate instead of opening it. The metal creaks and sways under her weight, and for a moment it might give way. An odd fantasy strikes her, of the gate collapsing and bringing her crashing to the ground. It would be terribly humiliating to break her leg on a country gate. Jaime would get a good laugh out of it. 

In no time at all she's by the side of the warehouse, picking the lock of a maintenance door and slipping inside. Her heart is pounding now; she's passed the point of return. All she can do now is stick to the plan Varys gave her, and hope that his promises will hold up. If they don’t, well, she has a gun, and has experience in improvising.

The corridor lighting isn’t fantastic. She slips along as quietly as possible, holding her pistol carefully. It’s at times like these that she hates her height; though it gives her a certain advantage in hand-to-hand combat it’s a lot harder to be inconspicuous when you’re the tallest person in the building.

She’s in luck, though, and she’s been going for a good seven or eight minutes before she runs in to anyone. Even then, they don’t see her. She’s approaching a T-junction when she catches sight of a pair of guards, and hastily flattens herself against the wall. Her pistol is equipped with a silencer, but for the sake of her own conscience she’d rather avoid killing unless she has to.

(And she will have to. Brienne’s more than aware of that. It’s not something she takes lightly, but she’s prepared to do it. She just have to remind herself of all the times she’s been followed or attacked or shot at, and some of the apprehension fades away.)

After ten minutes, she still hasn’t run into trouble, and she doesn’t know whether she ought to be relieved or concerned. Missions are not supposed to be this easy. Moreover, part of her plan had depended upon finding somebody. So far she’s been able to more or less guess her way, but if she can’t force anyone to tell her where Jaime is it’s going to be a lot more difficult to find him.  

The other consequence of not seeing anybody is that she’s relaxing. She’s trying her hardest not to, but it’s difficult to remain constantly alert when she hasn’t had practice in so long. Maybe Varys was onto something with his whole ‘unfit for service’ thing. Not that she likes the idea of being wrong.

She turns a corner and comes face to face with a line of guns.

 

There are six men in total, all in the same green uniforms. Their stance is very rehearsed, shoulder-to-shoulder with only small gaps in between and their expressions are focused but not worried. Each of them holds a semi-automatic to rival her own.

Brienne’s mind goes into overdrive. She’s fast enough to take out three of them, maybe four if it goes her way. Depending on how quick their reactions are, the others might pose a problem. If they’re stupid enough to come close she can knock them out, but if they stand back to fire from a distance she’s screwed.

What she does know without having to think about it is that she has to make the first move. The longer she hesitates and prolongs this stalemate, the longer they have to regroup.

She fires at the two on the right. The shots have barely left her gun before she’s ducking down and shifting to the other side of the corridor. While moving she fires a third shot. It misses the man’s chest and buries itself instead into his shoulder. He drops his weapon with a yell and lurches behind his comrades, distracting them for a split-second. It’s just long enough for Brienne to shoot two of them. They crumple easily, and it’s easy to imagine that they aren’t people.

Only one is left. His gun is trained on her and his grip is steady, but she can see the slightest waver in his eyes. It’s not cowardice - consideration would be closer to the mark. He’s smart enough to recognize her skill and his insignificance.

Brienne takes advantage of his hesitation to shoot him in the leg. He falls, and she runs forward to club him in the head with the butt of her pistol. He’s out like a light, and the only person still conscious is the one with the bullet in his shoulder.

She grabs his collar and drags him to his feet. He’s clutching his arm, the blood draining from his face.

‘You are going to listen to me,’ she says, in the most intimidating voice she can muster. ‘You will not scream or draw attention to us. There are plenty of other painful places I can shoot you that won’t kill you immediately.’ She points her pistol at his other shoulder, to emphasize the point. ‘Where are you keeping Jaime Lannister?’

He swallows. His eyes dart to his fallen colleagues on the floor, and then back to her. ‘It’s not far from here.’

‘I hope you’re telling the truth. I can shoot you before anybody shoots me,’ she reminds him. Threats aren’t her usual style and they sicken her slightly, but it’s not like she has another choice at the moment. ‘Can you walk?’

He nods, and she relaxes her grip on his uniform slightly. He’s about a foot and a half shorter than she is, and is trying to staunch the bleeding from his shoulder with his hands.

‘Stuff your jacket into it,’ Brienne advises him, because it would be really inconvenient if he passes out before she gets where she needs to be. ‘How did you find me? I saw the formation, you were expecting me.’

‘Motion sensors,’ he says, after a beat. ‘The security looks terrible. It isn’t.’

‘And were you expecting somebody to come for the Lannister?’

‘My job’s to follow orders, not to speculate.’ They’re approaching another T-junction. He glances at her, and turns right.

This plan could either go beautifully right or spectacularly wrong, Brienne’s well aware. The guy might be a lot less intimidated than he’s suggesting, and he could lead her right into an ambush. She’s heard this venture described as suicide multiple times, but it’s only now that she’s really realizing it could be.

She keeps her gun trained on the man’s back, and hopes she won’t need to shoot him.

They don’t run into anyone else, which again is peculiar. Every so often there’s a door in the wall, unmarked and grey. All the corridors look so alike; she wonders how anyone knows their way around. Her guide stumbles a couple of times, and when he next looks back at her she notes how much paler he is. His wound would not be serious if he could get medical attention immediately, but the more he walks the more it bleeds.

‘It’s just along here,’ he says, a little hesitantly.

‘I’m not going to kill you once I get what I want,’ Brienne says, and he looks at her in confusion. ‘I’ll just knock you out.’

‘That’s not very comforting.’ He stops in front of a door. It looks exactly like every other one they’ve seen. ‘He’s in here.’

‘Will he have guards?’

He shakes his head. ‘Unnecessary. He’s secured.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right.’ She nods for him to open the door. He obeys, and his hand is so slick with blood it nearly slides off the handle.

At first she thinks he is lying, and the room is empty. The lighting is even worse than in the corridors, and the lack of windows mean inside it’s all one big shadow. Then her eyes begin to adjust, and she realizes there’s something in the middle of the room – thought what it is, she can’t tell.

‘Is there a light switch?’ she asks quietly, and her guide nearly trips in his haste to comply. Whatever promises she’s made about being merciful, he’s seen her kill four people without blinking and is going to have a hard time believing her.

The light comes on, and Brienne’s stomach plummets. No amount of preparation could have readied her for this. There’s a chair in the middle of the room, and in it a human shape, curled in on itself so that it’s barely recognizable.

With spontaneous speed, she turns back to her guide and punches him. It isn’t the cleanest blow, but it does the job. She drags his unconscious form into the room and pulls the door shut. On an impulse, she props him up so that the blood won’t pool around his shoulder, and then finally turns back to face the chair.

‘Jaime,’ she says, and the shape stirs. ‘Oh god, Jaime I’m sorry.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'This will be finished by Christmas' I said optimistically a few weeks ago. Mind you, I also thought it would run to 12 chapters, max.
> 
> My current aim is to get it finished by the New Year. I'm off college now so I have more writing time, and after this I have a 15-chapter Hamilton fic all planned out so that's another motivation.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's still reading this. As always, if you liked it please let me know in a comment and if you have any questions you can either comment them or send me an ask at betweentheheavesofstorm.tumblr.com


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe, just maybe, they can get out of this without being destroyed or destroying each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence/slight gore, & a spoiler regarding Jaime in ASOS!
> 
> (see end note for what it is)

He looks terrible. One side of his face is purple with bruises and the other is crusted with dried blood. His hair falls in a lank sheet over his forehead, and from the hunched way he’s sitting she can guess there’s some internal injury. It’s quite horrifying to see him like this, Jaime who was always so composed; so confident, sitting like an animal that knows it’s prey.

Brienne stoops beside him, her gun clattering to the floor. Tight restraints bind his limbs to the steel chair, and when her eyes follow his arms down she realizes that where his right hand should be there is only a stump.

‘Oh my god,’ she says. Her mind is incapable of forming anything more comprehensive. She’s heard all about the terrible torture methods some agents face, but she’s never been directly confronted by somebody who’s _had their hand cut off._

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Jaime mutters. He sounds almost as bad as he looks.

‘Nobody else was going to,’ she says, sliding her backpack off and rummaging around in it for her water bottle. She finds it and offers it to him. He shakes his head. ‘Come on, it doesn’t take an expert to see you’re dehydrated.’

His pride seems to crumble, and he lets her hold the bottle up to his mouth. Some of the water spills down his face, and her heart breaks a little more.

‘How did you find me?’

‘It wasn’t hard,’ she replies, and he stiffens a little more. Without stopping to think about it, she puts her hand on his shoulder. He winces automatically, but then seems to lean in to her touch. ‘Where are you hurt?’

‘Not too bad,’ he mutters. ‘Bruising, possibly a cracked rib. And my hand.’

‘Your hand.’

She swallows her nausea and drags her eyes from his face to his arm. They’ve cauterized the wound at least; otherwise he would have bled to death. Over that it looks like someone’s bound a piece of dirty rag. It isn’t festering yet, but Brienne knows enough about injuries to suspect it will soon if it’s not cleaned properly. All the more incentive to get out as quickly as possible.

‘When did this happen?’

Jaime hesitates. ‘Yesterday? Day before? I don’t know.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.’

‘You shouldn’t have come at all. It’s dangerous.’

Her eyes dart up to meet his. ‘Does that usually put me off?’

‘You’re supposed to be recuperating, for gods’ sake.’ Even battered and bloody, he’s still obstinate.

‘And you weren’t supposed to get yourself kidnapped.’ She knows it’s pointless to keep staring at him, that she really should get moving and do something, but she can’t absorb the fact that he’s _there_. It seems impossibly long since she saw him last, and even now it doesn’t quite process that this is really him.

She’d like to pretend that she hasn’t imagined what it’s going to be like, swooping to his rescue. She envisioned herself getting to be the hero, coming in with snappy one-liners and behaving the way he would if their situations were reversed. In reality, nothing works out that way.

‘It wasn’t intentional,’ he says in response. His voice is weak, but he clearly can’t stop himself from retorting. ‘Though if I’d known you’d have dedicated your time like this I might have done.’

‘It’s in my best interest not to get you killed,’ she says, remembering what he’d said what feels like years ago. His eyebrows twitch, and she can tell he recognizes the phrase even if he can’t remember the specific context. To avoid continuing that line of conversation, she takes a closer look at his restraints. His captors haven’t stinted on quality; the cord binding his arms and legs is thick and tough. Out of everything, she forgot to bring a knife.

‘Where’s your backup?’ Jaime asks, as though it’s only just occurred to him.

‘There isn’t any.’ Unable to cut the rope, she sets to work on the knots. They’re expertly tied, and so tight they make her fingertips sore. ‘It was a last minute thing.’

‘I really hope you’re joking.’ She doesn’t respond, and it sinks in that she isn’t. ‘Oh Jesus Christ. You came by _yourself?’_

With a tug, she pulls apart the first knot, freeing his right forearm. ‘Varys had no one else spare, and your family were pretty confident you’d rescue yourself.’

His mouth twists. ‘And how was I supposed to do that?’

‘By telling them whatever it was they wanted to know about me.’ She’s impressed by how calmly she delivers it, as though she really was as impartial towards him as she lets on. ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I guessed you were too moral to let me die,’ he says, but the lightness of his tone sounds wrong. He’s saying exactly what she expected to hear, and yet now it’s being said it doesn’t sound at all convincing. ‘I’m assuming that’s why you’re here.’

‘Of course.’

The rope on his bicep falls away, and his whole arm is free. He flexes it tentatively, and from the grimace she gathers that the stump is still painful. Her eyes keep returning to it, as though a part of her brain thinks she’s mistaken and if she looks hard enough she’ll be able to see his hand.

‘Tyrion sends his love,’ she says, getting up and moving round to his other side. The blood on his face is more prominent here; she can see the cuts along his temple. Shallow, so he doesn’t bleed too much but calculated to cause pain. It’s information she wishes she didn’t have. ‘Well, he helped me. I think that’s more or less the same thing.’

He just nods. ‘It occurred to me that in much of my life I’ve been surrounded by virtuous people. It’s a wonder your hideous influence hasn’t rubbed off.’

‘You have a sister and father to compensate for it,’ she points out.

Jaime snorts. ‘Ah, that makes sense.’ He sounds the closest to his old self now, though it’s still unlike him to be self-deprecating. He angles his head towards her, and she’s struck by the annoying realization that even under several layers of blood and grime Jaime is still good-looking. She should be aware of the Lannister good genes now, after being in a room with Cersei for more than five minutes, but it still makes her brain stop for a moment. Perhaps it isn’t the shock of him being pretty so much as the horrific implication that she cares.

(She doesn’t.)

His left arm is easier to free than his right, now she’s got the hang of the knots. Dimly she registers that she needs to be paying more attention to her surroundings, but it’s difficult when her universe keeps shrinking to one chair and one person.

‘Were they expecting you to be rescued?’ she asks, because unlike most of what Jaime’s said this would be valuable.

‘I don’t think so. Not by you, anyway.’

‘They think I’m that callous?’

‘They think you’re that smart.’ He pauses, and then. ‘For all I say about your moral compass, I wouldn’t have held it against you if you hadn’t come.’

‘Thanks. I would’ve.’

Only his legs are left. Brienne shifts until she’s almost sitting on the floor. ‘When did you last eat?’

‘A while ago. They’re not big on room service here.’

She accidentally pulls the rope tight around his calf while fighting with a particularly stubborn knot, and hears his slight intake of breath. A beat later he’s talking again, desperate levity clinging to each syllable.

‘How did the rest of the story go?’

‘What story?’

‘The one on the train. You sent me a picture. I got interrupted before I could respond.’

Her mind flashes back to their last communication, the texts she’d sent him and the carnage she’d come back to. ‘Oh. I didn’t really see. It wasn’t worth pursuing.’

He starts speaking again, with eloquence she hasn’t heard since he had too much to drink. It’s about inane things, little details that neither of them could care less about, but it’s clearly calming him to do so. The last thing that would help would be him becoming hysteric, and so she responds to whatever questions he asks. It feels foreign to look after Jaime in this way. It’s either a mark of his trust in her that he’s exposing his vulnerability, or a sign of how dire the situation is that he has no other option.

When at last she’s untied both of his legs, she looks up at him. It’s strange to see his face from this angle; normally she’s looking down. He’s been staring at her, and she locks eyes with him. The panic has faded from his face, to be replaced by a faint curiosity.

‘Thank you,’ he says, and it strikes her that that’s the first time he’s said it to her and meant it. He is not usually a person who means anything, not outright anyway. Brienne’s so used to piecing together his actual intention that a sincere statement is confusing. She feels a slight stab of panic. However much they’re trying to return to their old routines they keep slipping away, and without a comfortable barrier of sarcasm and exasperation she doesn’t know what their friendship is. If it even is a friendship.

Jaime seems equally lost. She offers him a tentative smile, but instead of fixing things it only makes them stranger. If he is no longer the person she hates, the one she tolerates, she doesn’t know how to treat him. She only knows that coming here was the right call.

‘Best get going,’ she says abruptly, extending a hand to help him up.

He ignores it, trying to rise on his own and for just a moment she thinks maybe they’re back to normal. But then he staggers and she’s by his side, looping his uninjured arm over her shoulders and supporting his weight.

He makes a small sound of protest, and then says in a distinctly irritated voice, ‘You don’t have to help me.’

‘Yes, I do.’ Picking her gun up with her other hand, she turns to face him and wills her brain not to fixate on how close he is. It shouldn’t be a big deal, and yet for some reason it is that he’s _right there_. On an impulse, she closes the distance between them and kisses him lightly on the mouth. She half expects him to jerk away, but if anything he kisses her back for a fraction of a second, before she pulls back.

‘Maybe I should let myself get rescued more often,’ is all he says, and she lets out an amused puff of breath. The weirdness passes and he’s just Jaime again, albeit a Jaime that needs her help.

They set off slowly to the door. Brienne’s mind is busy again, calculating their odds. If Jaime can’t walk by himself, this is going to be really difficult. She’d hoped that once she found and freed him they could work as a pair. Now that view seems hopelessly optimistic.

(‘Hopelessly optimistic’ does sum her up quite well. Brienne tends to veer between crippling self-doubt and hubris, and in both cases she clings to a positive outlook. Of course she can find the Stark girls, rescuing Jaime will be possible, it doesn’t matter if she kisses him on the spur of the moment. Tomorrow they’ll either be dead or he’ll be so grateful he can forgive her anything, so it doesn’t matter that it’s weird or that she’s getting too attached for her own good.)

When they reach the door, Jaime pauses for a moment. Even with her support, he’s swaying on the spot. ‘Not to criticize a very worthy endeavour, but is there an exit plan? Or do we stumble around and hope we get lucky?’

‘The second one.’

‘You’re really a big fan of risks, aren’t you?’

‘If you don’t like this rescue you can wait for the next one.’

‘All I’m saying is there should be a plan somewhere. I’m not getting the impression that you’re a trained secret agent.’

‘How’s this, then: we go back the way I came and I shoot anybody I see while trying not to die.’ She never liked the sarcasm he brought out in her, it always felt petty. Now she’s glad of her ability to retort.

Jaime’s smiling when she glances at him out of the corner of her eye. Maybe, just maybe, they can get out of this without being destroyed or destroying each other.

Stepping over the guard’s unconscious body, Brienne heaves the door open and the two topple out into the corridor. It’s very dim after the brightness of the room, and in the seconds it takes her eyes to adjust Brienne begins to get a feeling that something is very wrong indeed.

She blinks, and the swarms of men at either end of the corridor come into focus. There are dozens of them, too many to count, all armed and ready to fire. She was half-expecting them, but that doesn’t make the reality any better. Jaime stops short, and when her hand with the gun rises instinctively he squeezes her shoulder and she drops it again. Six were difficult enough, there’s no way she can take on this many and get out of it in one piece, let alone get Jaime out in one piece.

‘Well,’ he says quietly, and it’s really quite astonishing how well he can hold her attention when there are over twenty guns trained on them. ‘It was nice knowing you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An update without having to wait for weeks? I know, I'm as surprised as anybody.
> 
> The spoiler is Jaime's hand - I can't remember which half of ASOS it happens in, but yeah it's that.
> 
> Despite my, er, interesting history with predicting the length (remember when I thought this was going to be seven chapters?) I can now say with a lot of confidence that after this there will be two more chapters. 
> 
> Hope you're enjoying whatever Christmas holidays you have, and thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> However this not a situation she can escape through denial. Her only options are to grit her teeth and bear it, and try to quell the rising tide of panic that’s rushing up to hammer home the realization that she really doesn’t want to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual TW for violence

The soldiers don’t fire. They advance down the corridor in a steady formation, and order Brienne to drop her weapon. She obeys after just a second’s hesitation, turning the safety switch on and letting it clatter to the floor. If she were alone, she might have backed into the room again, or tried to fight her way out. As it is, she’s got other concerns.

Together they are escorted down the hall. Brienne’s heart is pounding something terrible, and she doesn’t think she’s imagining the sheen of sweat on Jaime’s forehead. This is going badly, to use the best possible phrasing. Her fear hits her all at once, and she’s overtaken by a sudden urge to sit down and refuse to move. It’s the sort of thing she used to do during bad dreams; find any way she could to take control and steer events back to the way she wants them to go. Sometimes it was as simple as denying anything could hurt her, at other times she willed herself to have magic powers. If this were like that, if life really was just a matter of wanting something enough, she could win.

However this not a situation she can escape through denial. Her only options are to grit her teeth and bear it, and try to quell the rising tide of panic that’s rushing up to hammer home the realization that she really doesn’t want to die.

It isn’t far from Jaime’s room to their destination. After five minutes of walking, their entourage stops and beckons them through yet another door. Brienne swallows, sets her jaw and half-carries Jaime through it.

The interior is different to everything they’ve seen. It’s as though they’ve walked onto a movie set of a house rich enough to satisfy Tywin Lannister. The walls are painted an ugly maroon colour and a long wooden table stretches out below an elegant chandelier. At one end of the table is an enormous leather chair, in which an even bigger man resides.

Brienne feels as though her stomach has cut a hole in her chest, leapt out and is in the process of fleeing across the floor. Some part of her had been expecting – no, dreading – this, but she’d hoped that if she never spoke of it she’d be wrong, somehow. There were other villains in the world, other people who’d want to kill her. If only it were one of them.

Beside her, Jaime has gone rigid. For maybe the first time, he’s more visibly afraid than she is. Granted, it’s not without good reason. She’s had at least some chance to recover.

Gregor Clegane rises from his chair. A subtler villain - Varys, perhaps - would have remained seated and enjoyed their ability to exert power from a lower position. The Mountain, however, is anything but subtle. He is the only person Brienne’s ever had to crane her neck to look in the eye.

A wave of memories washes over her and she shudders. The man before her has done more horrific things than even the most melodramatic super-villains can dream of. She’s suspected for a while that she’d see him again, and yet now she’s facing him she can feel her optimism flag a little. No matter how she approaches the situation, she can’t think of a way out of it. Better just to accept that Varys was right, that everybody was right, that she can’t do this and never could. Jaime is past saving, and it’s possible it was never about him anyway. Just a chance to prove herself, that’s all this was, a middle finger to anyone who’d ever criticized her. A stupid, childish move that she’s going to pay for now.

Her gaze flits back to Jaime, still standing unsteadily at her side, and suddenly she regrets every thought that’s just been through her head. They haven’t a snowball’s chance in Hell of surviving, but he already looks defeated and somehow that’s enough to snap her out of it. They will make it; they have to make it, if for no better reason than to erase that hopeless expression from his face for good. It occurs to her that he’s never been an optimist however many jokes he makes, and the realization hurts more than she expected.

And this is bigger than Jaime. It has never truly been about him, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Brienne’s half ready to move heaven and earth for him, and he is only her partner, her friend, her weakness.

‘Good evening,’ she says to Gregor Clegane, because unless you have a specific strategy that says otherwise, the first rule is not to let your opponent know you’ve been beaten.

Of course, sometimes they’re able to reach that conclusion by themselves.

He disregards her greeting, walking forward until he’s standing only a couple of feet away as if to intimidate them with his size. It’s working. In the tiny part of Brienne’s mind that isn’t screaming she’s realizing that it’s going to be difficult if not impossible to fight an opponent bigger than her, simply because she’s never done it before. Normally it is the other way around, where she’s able to use her height and weight to her advantage. She’s going to need to learn new moves, and learn them quickly.

‘I thought you’d arrive much sooner,’ Clegane says, in a remark that’s as straightforward as he is.

There isn’t time to digest that comment now, however much she wants to. Brienne raises her chin and stops her hands from clenching into fists. Neither she nor Jaime have been cuffed, but nor are they armed anymore. She settles for folding her arms across her chest. It’s Gregor’s brother that they call the Hound, yet both siblings are capable of smelling fear.

The Mountain looks at the two of them, sizing them up. He’s not likely to waste time telling them their plans, or even taunting them about their failures. He’s brutal and to the point, and both of those things make him a formidable opponent.

After a moment’s consideration, he appears to reach a decision. Signaling with a wave of his hand to separate the prisoners, he pulls a long knife from his belt. Other people prefer more modern weapons, but if her time in his company has taught Brienne anything it’s that Gregor Clegane is a traditionalist. Combined with a sadistic streak, it makes for unpleasant fights.

He goes for Jaime first. Brienne has been waiting, hoping that he’ll single her out, but she is disappointed. Perhaps she is wrong in thinking he wanted to hurt her most – or maybe, she realizes, as he bears down on Jaime with the weapon raised – he knows this is the way to do it.

Jaime isn’t even looking at him. His head his turned away from his assailant, his eyes fixed instead on Brienne’s face. When he sees her watching, he gives a very slight shake of his head.

It’s not enough. She’ll be damned if she’ll stand there and watch, after coming all this way. She waits until Clegane’s about to strike, and then swings round violently to hit the guards on either side. Her elbows connect with their faces and they yell in surprise as they stumble back. The Mountain pauses and turns, in time for Brienne to slam into him.

He takes a step back, but aside from that he barely moves. More advantageous is his momentary surprise, which enables her to make a dive for his knife. He twists his arm away and she clings on, aware that the closer she is to him, the less likely she is to be shot. The penalty for letting her escape will be far less than that for shooting their boss, and Clegane’s men are probably confident in his ability to win fights. They may even be ordered to leave him to it.

Another time, this would be the moment when Jaime throws himself into the fray, intent on preventing from Brienne from getting all the glory. Today, he’s stumbled off to the side, unnoticed by all but Brienne, who can’t afford to focus on him.

Clegane is twisting his arm now, trying to get her to relinquish her grip. She tries to shift her hold and he takes advantage of it, throwing her off. Brienne uses the momentum to rebound and punch the man in the throat. It’s a bit like hitting a marble column. Her fist stings and she swears violently under her breath, reaching out with her other hand to grab the hilt of the knife.

He doesn’t let go easily. At the edge of her vision she sees his fist coming, and manages to move so that it hits her shoulder and not her head. It still hurts, so much that she staggers for a second. As before, he takes the moment to raise the knife towards her face. She’s still holding onto it, trying to push it away and seize it at the same time.

She is strong, but he’s stronger. The knife is still rising and now she can see the light reflecting off the blade, glinting when it reaches the wickedly sharp edge. It will hit her throat and it won’t stop moving until all her blood has poured out onto the floor. Too late, she remembers the panic button sewn into her sleeve. She should have hit it when they were in the corridor, and damn the expense of an extraction team. Now there’s no time and she can’t reach.

She renews her resistance and raises her gaze up to look the Mountain in the eye. He is expressionless, almost bored. The fight that means everything to her means nothing to him, he has fought it before against those stronger, tougher and more capable than she.

The edge of the knife is a foot away. Brienne’s muscles are screaming, her hand is cramped and she can’t hear anything over the pounding of her heart in her chest. Her feet, fixed in place on the floor may slide at any moment. It’s then that she realizes how she could be defeated, how simple it would be. All he has to do is kick out at her legs and she would topple. She’s not fit enough to rise again immediately, and those seconds would be her death.

This is a different type of fear altogether. Not nausea, not panic, just a cold dry dread that settles through her being and makes her heart stutter. She’s seen how to reach checkmate, and it’s only a matter of time until Clegane sees it too. It’s then that she realizes the fundamental: winning has never been an option.

Brienne stops pushing against the knife and yanks it towards her. It’s the stupidest move anyone’s pulled in the history of hand-to-hand combat, and perhaps because of this it surprises Gregor Clegane. She’s able to change the trajectory of the blade sufficiently so that when it hits her it bites into the base of her neck instead, just above her collarbone.

It doesn’t hit skin immediately; her gear has a high collar and the material is relatively thick. It’s not thick enough though, the knife was moving too quickly and it’s too sharp. She feels the impact, and then a sting and a sudden warmth.

She staggers backwards, still holding the knife to her chest. Clegane lets her go. Confidence has replaced his shock; he’s watching her the same way a hunter gauges whether it’s safe to approach a wounded wild animal. Across the room, Jaime lets out an inarticulate cry that hurts her worse than the blade in her chest.

One of the first things Brienne learned about stab wounds was that you should always leave the weapon in for as long as possible. The moment you remove it there’s nothing to stop the bleeding and your chances of survival decrease dramatically. It was so logical; she found it baffling that agents even needed to be told it. Surely things like that are just common sense.

The thought is interrupted by a stumble. She’s losing balance, and after a couple of swaying steps she sinks to her knees. The hand that’s not still holding the hilt is pawing blindly at the gash, trying to estimate how deep and how bad it is. A shadow falls over her. Clegane won’t need a weapon to take her out now; all it would take is one powerful blow.

Slowly, she raises her head. She’s never felt smaller. He has to bend down to reach her. She sees him move and makes herself wait until she’s counted to three.

He leans down and Brienne springs up, pulling the knife from her chest and burying it in his throat. She nearly has to jump to reach, but it goes in all the way until only the hilt is visible. He flails for a moment, clawing at life, and then with a terrible gargling noise topples to the ground. Blood is spurting from the wound and the life is fading from his eyes. Hands shaking, she leans down and wrenches the knife free.

There is a dead silence in the room. Brienne looks up and the rest of the world comes rushing back. Jaime is whiter than milk, and the Mountain’s men are standing open-mouthed. Her eyes flick over them and land on the only one with a stripe on his uniform.

‘You will stand aside, and we will leave,’ she says. Her voice is trembling, but for once it’s not a bad thing. ‘Or do you want to wait and see what I can do to you?’

It’s the last of many bluffs she’s pulled today. She’d sooner sprout wings than defeat an entire roomful of armed soldiers, but in their eyes she has already achieved the impossible. Best not to push their luck.

One by one they step down and she’s able to rush across the room to Jaime, who doesn’t look very steady standing without help. His eyes are very wide, and when she takes hold of his arm to tuck it over her shoulder he starts, as though he wasn’t expecting to touch her again.

‘You…’ he mutters. ‘That was…’

‘Yeah.’ She can’t feel her wound at the moment, her body is in shock, but every moment that they wait the sooner it is going to start hurting, and she’s worried when it does she won’t be a help to anybody else. ‘Come on. We should go.’

He glances around the room and seems to accept that nobody is going to stop them from leaving. The huge body of Gregor Clegane is lying spread-eagled on the floor, intimidating even in death. Jaime’s eyes move quickly on.

‘Where are we going?’ he asks quietly, as they make their way slowly through the corridors. ‘Hospital? You should get that looked at.’

She pauses, and surveys his injuries. He’s battered but not dying. There are painkillers in the car to deal with the fact that he must be hurting like hell, and she would almost rather go another round with the Mountain than spend a few hours in A&E.

‘Home,’ Brienne says, and feels a rush of relief at the words. ‘We’re going home.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I am really really going to try to have the last chapter up at some point tomorrow. Failing that, it will probably be up Boxing Day. 
> 
> I hope those of you that celebrate Christmas have a fantastic time :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a short pause. And then, ‘You never told me that.’

She brings him a cardboard carton of chips, even though when she asked he said he wasn’t hungry. It was her idea to stop at the service station. She pleaded her own exhaustion, though he suspects it was more of a ploy to check up on him. Not that she isn’t exhausted - she’s been driving for hours already and while her wound is bandaged up she insisted he have the last of the painkillers.

He hasn’t actually taken them. They’re the sort that make you sleepy, and tonight’s a time when he wants to be awake. There are half a dozen things he wants to say and just as many things that he should never say and the line between them isn’t terribly clear.

They got out of the warehouse with surprising ease. Much worse was the cross-country trek back to the car. He slipped several times, and without Brienne would have ended up stuck in a muddy ditch without the energy to rise.

Of course, without Brienne he’d still be in that chair with no way out of it.

‘You have to eat something,’ she says, handing the chips over. ‘I even got you ketchup.’

He mumbles something akin to thanks and takes the carton awkwardly with one hand. The drive back has been the most surreal experience he’s ever had, and that’s saying something. Neither of them have talked a great deal beyond the necessities and even then the conversation has been awkward. Brienne’s mostly been focusing on the road, and he’s, well, been focusing on Brienne.

Now they’re stopped in an empty car park of a service station that boasts both a KFC and a Little Chef. The latter’s logo grins down from a billboard looming above the cars, and Jaime feels a little as though he’s crossed through into some alternate dimension where miraculous escapes are a fact of life.

‘Do you want to call your family?’ Brienne asks, tucking in to her own portion of chips. Her mobile is on the dash; she took it with her when she went in to order. ‘I spoke to Varys, he’ll let them know, but if you want to speak to them…’ She trails off, and Jaime finds her uncertainty mirrored in his response. He doesn’t reply immediately. It shouldn’t be a difficult question, they are his family, and yet the idea repels him. The energy required for such a conversation is not energy he has.

‘I’ll pass for now,’ he says quickly, and she accepts the answer without questioning. ‘Did you get through OK?’

‘Yep. Reassured my dad, and yelled at Varys. Do you know how many times he assured me it wasn’t a trap?’ she sighs. ‘Not that it mattered. We got out. I can kill him another time.’

‘Wait, what did he tell you about it?’

‘Not much. He was too busy advising me to leave you be. Only Clegane _was_ expecting me. Did you hear what he said? _I thought you’d arrive much sooner_.’

‘Would you have come if you’d known?’ he asks, and regrets it immediately. It’s not the sort of question that will bode well in any situation, much less one where they’re both in pain and short on sleep.

‘Yes,’ she says, slightly quieter than before. ‘It’s not like I thought it was going to be easy.’

 _You made it look easy_ , he almost says, and catches himself in time. They aren’t there yet. Wherever ‘there’ is and whether it’s ever going to be their destination is something else, something he doesn’t quite have the answer to.

‘So, killing Varys,’ he says instead. ‘I’m in. When do we do it?’

Brienne laughs. ‘Next week. I want to lie on the sofa and do nothing for a bit.’

‘That does sound good.’

‘Tomorrow you are going to have to go to hospital,’ she nods to the stump. ‘Make sure it isn’t infected. You don’t want to lose the rest of your arm.’

‘You say that like you won’t be there,’ he retorts. ‘You got stabbed. Or rather, you stabbed yourself.’

She glances down. She can’t actually see the cut, it’s too close to the base of her neck and swathed in bandaging. Though it had bled a lot, upon inspection they’d discovered it was quite shallow. She was lucky it was the long edge of the knife; had it been done properly she would have died. It’s not a thought he can dwell on.

‘Not badly,’ she says. ‘So do we strangle Varys with garden twine or set rabid Jack Russells on him?’

‘I like both,’ he muses, glad that the conversation has turned back into safe territory. ‘Maybe we tie him up with the twine and then let the Jack Russells loose.’

‘Good thinking.’ She eats another couple of chips, and notices he’s barely touched his own. ‘Too salty?’

‘No, it’s just… a bit much. A shock to my system. I don’t want to have survived days of torture just to be defeated by some French fries.’

‘I really should have been quicker.’

‘It’s all right. You weren’t to know.’

‘But I was. I _did._ I’ve spent time with Clegane too, remember? He didn’t hurt me then, but I saw what he did to others. And this time it was you and I could have stopped it if I’d shown up sooner.’ She looks across to him, and Jaime’s scorched by the sheer intensity of her gaze. The idea that _anyone_ cares about him that much is revolutionary enough, and the mere implication that Brienne cares is enough to shut his brain down completely.

‘As a leading expert of blaming myself for things, _don’t_. It never makes anything better and you couldn’t have done anything else.’

‘But your _hand – ’_

‘Do you remember the summer? I thought you were dead, Brienne. Do you know how much time I spent thinking it all over, wondering what I should have done differently, how I could have stopped it?’ he stares at the dashboard, unable to meet her eyes. ‘I just … it’s only a hand.’

There’s a short pause. And then, ‘You never told me that.’

‘Yeah, well. I’m not really the type.’

‘That I did know.’ She finishes her chips and crumples up the empty carton. ‘The rest, though – I wouldn’t have guessed.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Are _you_ serious? Jaime, you hate me. You’ve hated me ever since the start. OK, perhaps now it’s simmered down to something more like general irritation, but you can’t pretend you like me. And that’s okay. You don’t have to.’

She’s said things like this before, and every time he’s failed to come up with a good answer. Probably because his natural instinct is to deny it, even though they both know it to be true. It would be best if he had the energy to deny it again, only he’s tired and sick of lying.

‘You don’t irritate me,’ he says. ‘Well, not all the time.’

‘And I’m supposed to believe that because?’

‘I didn’t tell Gregor Clegane where you were.’

‘Was that all he wanted to know?’

‘I’m sure he was conducting his own investigations anyway. It’s what he asked me.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’ she asks, in a tone of voice that implies after all their prevaricating she’s not going to let him slip off the hook this time. ‘Not finding me irritating isn’t a good enough reason to undergo torture.’

‘You want me to say it?’ he sounds angry now, and he is, a little. He never envisioned having this conversation, and so has not prepared for it. ‘Fine. I like you. You’re brave and stubborn and so moral you could give saints a run for their money. I’m not a great person but you make me want to be. And…’

‘And?’ He can’t tell if she’s surprised or amused. If she laughs at him, he’s going to get out of the car and walk home.

‘Your eyes are really, _really_ blue. I’m still not entirely convinced they aren’t tinted contacts.’

She does laugh, but it’s a nice sound - if a little awkward.

Now he’s started talking, he’s incapable of stopping. ‘I realise this is all rather late. I’m sure I managed to destroy any positive feeling you had towards me within five minutes of our meeting.’

 _She kissed you_ , a little voice in his head reminds him, and he pushes it away. It was impulsive, thoughtless and would have been motivated by pity.

It’s Brienne’s turn to look away now. ‘Um, not really.’

‘What does that mean?’

She takes a deep breath. ‘That I like you and I’ve tried _really_ hard not to care about what you think but it’s never worked, and I’m slightly confused and concerned that in a second you’re going to laugh and use this against me.’

Jaime puts his chips aside, awkwardly unclips his seatbelt and, leaning so far forward in his seat that he’s almost falling out, kisses Brienne. It’s everything he wanted to do and didn’t, everything he wanted to say and couldn’t and now Brienne is hearing it. She’s kissing him back, hesitantly at first and then eagerly, one of her hands tangling in his hair, and he gets the impression he’s not the only one who’s imagined what this would be like.

(Like fireworks. Like everything good that’s happened times tenfold, like the universe is trying to compensate for the past few days and has gone overboard.)

He loses his balance and breaks off the kiss, falling from his precarious position. He throws out his good hand to save himself, but accidentally knocks the stump against the seat in the process. The pain is sudden and excruciating and it stops being funny very quickly.

‘Are you all right?’ Brienne helps him up.

‘Fine,’ he assures her, returning reluctantly to his own seat. His spirits rise a moment later when she takes it upon herself to do the leaning to kiss him again, in a gentler and more lingering way than before. It’s less of a statement in itself than a promise of other things; of trust and hope and a certainty that this the right thing. Her lips are warm and slightly chapped, and he curses himself for never doing this before.

 

The second half of the drive is much more enjoyable. He falls asleep as they’re re-entering London, lulled by the radio and the knowledge that Brienne’s there. He hasn’t slept in a car for a long time, but nor has he felt so secure. The car is so warm and comfortable he’s almost sad to leave it.

Brienne parks as close as she can to their building. They get out and walk in step, a hesitant distance between them. He can manage without support now, though once they’re in the lobby opts for the lift instead of the stairs for the first time ever. Brienne’s relieved that she remembered her keys. It would have been a pain to have to break into their own flat.

‘Catelyn Stark’s daughters,’ Jaime remembers, as the lift creaks upwards. ‘Did you ever get closer to them?’

She shakes her head. ‘I got a distracted. I suppose that’s next.’

‘I’ll help,’ he offers. ‘And I mean actually do things, not just beg my brother and accompany you places.’

‘Thanks,’ she says, though they both know thanks to his hand he’s not going to be much use for a while. It still hasn’t truly sunk in, all the things he won’t be able to do now. Hell, he can’t even drive. With a prosthetic he may not be completely helpless, but it’s still disconcerting to consider everything he’s lost along with the literal flesh and bone.

To their relief, the lift gets them to the right floor without breaking down. Brienne has no further comment until they’re outside their door, and then she hesitates. ‘Do you think anyone will come for us here?’

‘Let them,’ Jaime says, and hastily follows it with, ‘I’m too tired to care.’

She shrugs and opens the door. He troops in after her, and they walk straight into the living room before stopping to consider how it looked when they were last here. There’s a moment of silence when they’re both looking at the upturned furniture and the bloodstain on the floor, and then he yawns.

‘Cleaning is a morning job.’                                                                                           

Brienne dumps her pack onto the sofa and sits down to remove her shoes. He follows suit, only to realise it’s going to take forever to undo the laces with one hand. She sees him struggling, and as soon as she’s done moves over to help him.

‘You don’t have to,’ he mutters.

‘I’m well aware,’ she says drily, and he stifles a smile.

Shoes cast aside, he stands again and yawns. Despite his nap, he’s exhausted. ‘Going to bed. You coming?’

‘Am I what?’ Brienne trips over the shoes she’s just taken off and nearly collides with the coffee table.

‘I didn’t mean like that,’ he says, amused, though his mind is suddenly elaborately constructing That. ‘Just… never mind.’ He turns and hobbles as quickly as he can to his room. Unlike the carnage of the living room, everything in here is untouched. He pulls of his jacket, and, leaving the rest of his clothes, topples into bed. He’s too tired for anything else.

Sleep has nearly claimed him when he hears a noise, and opens his eyes to see Brienne appearing in the doorway. She’s changed into her full-length pyjamas and hesitates for a second before walking over to the other side of his double bed and slipping in. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. His hand finds hers under the duvet, warm and soft, and he drifts off almost at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it is done. The fic that was born out of a prompt meme, and an anon asking me to do 'I thought you were dead'. Since then it's evolved into something else entirely, (and the second-longest fic I've written) and I've really enjoyed the process. 
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who's read and commented on this - especially you guys that have been here since the beginning. Also big thanks to my wonderful girlfriend, who despite not having seen GoT/read the books, read & supported this with amazing patience. You're all stars and I love you.
> 
> I'm counting this as finished for Christmas, even though it's past midnight now. I hope you all are having a good holiday season, whether or not you celebrate Christmas. Unfortunately now this is over I'm telling myself I have to concentrate on my creative writing coursework. Oh well. 
> 
> Big thanks again to everyone reading this, hope you have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!


End file.
